Soul to Squeeze: Pitstop on the Farewell Tour
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: Book Three of 'Dean and the Doctor' Series. See First Post for General Information and Disclaimers
1. Chapter 1

**Fic title: ****Soul to Squeeze:**** Pitstop on the Farewell Tour  
****Author name:**** PhoenixDragon  
****Artist name:** **usarechan**  
**Rating:** R  
**Characters/Pairing:** Eleventh Doctor, TARDIS, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Impala, Amy Pond (mentions/glimpses of OCs)  
**Genre:** Gen, Adventure, Sci-Fi, Horror, Fantasy  
**Word count:** 37,918  
**Warnings/Spoilers:**** Dark!fic, Angst, Language, Suicidal Ideations, References to Canon Character Death  
****A/N:** As always, this fiction would not have been possible without the total support and encouragement from my little family - and my family of friends from around the world! (The Love is perpetual guise!) A lot of you know how long this road has been - and without the hugs, cajoling and pokes from of all of you, this fic would never have happened. This is the third book in a series that has yet to happen (all my DW fans can appreciate the irony in this I'm sure!), but because this one _has_ happened, it is a sure sign that Books One, Two and even Four might be headed your way soon! So...this one is for you - dear friends, lovely lurkers and all readers who happen to stumble by. Thank you. I certainly hope this is worth the wait! (Written for **superwho_bb**.)  
**A/N2:** Some Special Thank Yous for those wonderful people who put up with constant emails, crying, sweating and horrid sentence structure/grammar/punctuation. Big Thank You to my lovely Ange (**stjra**) who pushed me until I signed up. I certainly never would have done so without her encouragement (miss you, darling!)! And Big Thank You to Laura (**lonewytch**) who gave me some great ideas and loads of support - whether it be hand-holding, smacking or promises of treats if I was good. Would never have finished this without you, Love! A Big Thank You to another Epic Cheerleader, Dee (**deeremet**), whose kind words, beautiful insights and delightful Squee has kept me going, even when I thought I couldn't anymore! Another Big Thank You to my ever-patient and OH-SO-TALENTED Artist, **usarechan**! Ye GODS, darling! Not only did you suffer through my contant delays with grace and charm, but your Artwork is simply breathtaking! I can only hope my fiction lives up to it in somewhere along the line! And last (or first, depending, lol!) HUGE Thank You to my dearest Sean (**justmmy**), who has put up with sentences disguised as mini-buses, horrid punctuation (of the Epic!Fail variety) and basic slash-n-burn manglings of the English language in a way only I can do it (feel free to edit this run-on sentence, bb *grins*). Without your mad skillz, this ficcy would have flopped, love. So thank you for stepping up to the plate again and rescuing me from myself! That being said, any errors, fails and screw-ups are mine and mine alone.  
**AN3:** Now Available in PDF! Big Thank You to Jack (**impala1967**) for your hard work - always have my back doncha dear? LOOKS GORGEOUS!  
**Summary:** **Book Three of 'Dean and the Doctor' Series:** _It wasn't the fact that he'd pop up at the oddest of times (like that old harbinger crow of doom – hardly fair, though Dean could see how he had garnered that reputation); it wasn't the fact that he had a _Time Machine_ of all things. It wasn't even the fact that he had inserted himself in their lives no less than three times before disappearing in that quiet way he had once the dust settled. _(Set S7-Ep1-2 of Supernatural and just after S6-Ep12 'Closing Time' for Doctor Who)  
**Disclaimer:**** Not mine, nope! All the wishing and pleading with the PTB have not changed this. The wonderful Doctor and His Companions still belong to BBC, BBC Worldwide (and for now) the epic S. Moffat. Dean, his wonderful family and the world they occupy still belong to the CW, Scrap Metal and Entertainment, the awesome E. Kripke and the lovely S. Gamble. So please no sue - just having fun here!**


	2. Chapter 2

**~I'll Let Your Ride Be Free~**

_He was suppose to be like everyone else: someone you passed on the road, saw them once and though you liked them well enough, time and circumstances meant you'd never see them again. _

_Never mind the man was hardly like anyone else._

_It wasn't the fact that he'd pop up at the oddest of times (like that old harbinger crow of doom – hardly fair, though Dean could see how he had garnered that reputation); it wasn't the fact that he had a _TimeMachine_ of all things. It wasn't even the fact that he had inserted himself in their lives no less than three times before disappearing in that quiet way he had once the dust settled._

_He carried that quality that set him apart, but couldn't be explained. If you asked _him_, he'd just grin that goofy, careless grin and say '_I'm the Doctor!_' like it was so simple and matter of fact, a child could see it (and maybe they did). But the truth was, the man (like his Machine) was anything but simple, and those three words (usually following his other catchphrase '_Trust me_.') hardly described him at all._

_Dean wasn't really a 'people' person, that was Sam through and through. But when it came to the Doctor, he and Sam were at odds. Dean prided himself on being able to read true character – and with the Doctor he saw...well, _them_ – him and Sam; albeit on a much broader scale, with a much wider road than most got._

_But that wasn't completely it, either._

_It was the way he looked so young, but was so very, very old. It was the way he could smile (even when the world was burning) like it would all be okay again – even if his eyes said it never would be. It was the way you found yourself instantly trusting and liking him (unless you were Sam). _

_But then, maybe Sam could see something that Dean couldn't and thus had never quite warmed to the Time-Lord. Dean wondered if the very quality that drew people to the Doctor turned Sam away; or maybe he saw a part of himself reflected in the man that he couldn't reconcile and was deterred by it. It was the one friendship he and Sam could never agree on, but after that one incident (or scrap, or fight, or brawl – however you chose to see it), his brother never spoke of it again and they agreed to disagree._

_It was one of the few things Dean refused to give way on. The Doctor was his friend, he was someone special; and for some reason, despite the eldest Winchester boy's aversion to relationships (generally speaking), he fought for it fiercely. He was determined to not give it up, not without a serious fight. Because he _wasn't_ a random stranger. He wasn't someone you liked, but passed without a 'hello' when you found yourself going down that road once more._

_He was the _Doctor_. As simple and as complicated as that one statement could ever be._

_Dean would fight to keep him. Just like he'd fight to keep Sam, fight to keep Bobby. Maybe it was selfish, foolish, stubborn and foolhardy of him. Maybe he would come to regret it down the line. A lot of people who had met him had (according to the Doctor himself); but until that time, Dean Winchester was honored to call him a friend, to call him someone he trusted. He'd fight for him until his last breath, if that's what it took._

_Too bad the Doctor had other ideas on the matter... _

**DW~SPN~DW~SPN~DW**

He almost had her complete.

The Impala's body work was finished: she had two new doors, a new trunk, four new tires and fresh paint to cover her (good as new) frame. Dean had striped her engine (as he had her chassis) and he was putting the finishing touches on her while the day was still young and the weather allowed it. He could have backed her into one of the numerous garage cubbyholes scattered across Bobby's yard, but Dean had always preferred to work out in the sunlight and fresh air.

Most of his job was done at night – and while he loved the nighttime hours and the sweet, quiet stillness that could go with it, he also enjoyed the benefits of the daytime when he could get it. It was a rarity (daylight was usually saved for traveling) so he soaked up each moment that he could get away with – and times, _moments_ like these were right next door to his idea of heaven. Just him, his girl, a cold soda, his well-loved tools, and a mild spring day.

To carry on the trend of weird weather patterns here of late, it was rather warm for early March; but then, Dean was never one to look too closely at a gift horse and the dental work it happened to be sporting.

He had lost a lot over the past week and he knew (in a weary way that left him tired and depressed if he thought too much about it) that he might only lose more before the course of the year was out. It was just the way things were, it was life as a Winchester. His job was to make sure he didn't lose any of the things he held dear (and there were precious few of those left), but if he was destined to do so anyway, it was also his job to kick the shit out of whatever tried. That was the Winchester way – and on days like today, Dean wouldn't have changed a thing.

Okay, a _few_ things – but dwelling wasn't his habit, so he tinkered happily with his baby's engine and bobbed his head along to the tunes on the radio (his spot in the yard picked specifically for the fantastic reception it received). He was working his way around one of the few pieces he didn't strip (for very specific reasons) so it wasn't at all surprising that he didn't hear it at first.

He worked his way around the part (idly wondering about the man who put it in and how the year had treated _him_ so far), humming along (absently) to the guitar rift on the radio when he heard the noise – faint, but very specific. It almost sounded like a log being sawed in half from far away, but with more of a resonant hum than a saw could ever produce. There _was_ a logging area not too far from Bobby's salvage yard, but it was too close to be any of the loggers working – unless they liked getting slapped with fines and run off with shotguns. He paused to listen, turning down the radio, but the sound wasn't repeated, so he went back to tinkering, chalking the noise up to his imagination (helped along by the fact he was working around a part that didn't exactly come with the Impala in her original design schematics).

He was working on a particularly stubborn valve (trying his damnedest to not jog the foreign piece nearby), when he heard the noise again – and this time he knew it wasn't his imagination. He ducked out from under the hood and closed it with haste, throwing a tarp over the Impala's front as debris from the footpath and scraggles of grass blew up around him like a cyclone, the humming/sawing noise rising in pitch before dropping again.

The displacement of molecules in the air could be felt as much as seen, the sensation like tingles along his exposed skin; the whiff of ozone almost sweetened with another smell that he could only describe in his mind as 'moondust' – though considering where the odor was coming from, it was probably a long way from any location even near the moon. An almost oval nimbus appeared in front of him, covering a rather large patch of ground and giving the air inside and around it an almost hazy, quality, like heat waves off the road in the distance. Within the oval (flickering in and out of being) was a familiar blue London Police Call Box, Her form see-through at first, but with each punching wheeze from Her engines, She gained a little more clarity, solidifying within the oval as She touched down.

The breeze whipped around him, ruffling his shirt and tinkling the tools on a nearby bench – cars scattered around the yard groaning and quaking as the machine forced the space around Her to accommodate Her, the light on top of the box whirling and blinking faster as She materialized with a mild sonic boom. The light gave one more frantic spin, the box blinking for a mere moment before it became a solid part of reality, the shimmery ovaline nimbus winking out as soon as the machine became more 'there' than not.

Dean swayed with the force of her last push and straightened out his hair and shirt, wondering for a split second if he should tease the man inside by pretending to go back to work, but opting instead to lean against the covered hood of the Impala, aware he was grinning like a loon and not really caring one bit. The last week had been the worst yet so far (and that was saying something), so a visit from his space-traveling alien friend was a more than welcome reprieve.

But he wasn't going to overdo it.

Dean counted off from ten and had just hit two, when the left door creaked inward, a Stetson covered head poking out to scan the surroundings; the Doctor hazarding a look at the ground before one foot cautiously test the gravel-path outside the door. He stepped out (door clicking closed behind him) and turned to look at Dean, big grin spreading across his ridiculous face as he flung his arms out to either side, like a nine-year old on his first roller-coaster.

"Dean!"

"Doctor," Dean replied (a little more sedately, but no less enthused).

It said something about their relationship (and what the Doctor meant to him) when he allowed the tall alien to wrap him up in a bone-crushing hug, feet being lifted clear off the ground before he was deposited gently back down on the Impala's hood. The Doctor stepped back to study Dean (eyes roaming over the tarped vehicle behind him), hands shoved deep into the pockets of a new (to Dean at least) green overcoat, his preposterous red bowtie sitting smartly below his equally preposterous chin.

In other words, he was a sight for sore eyes. If Dean had half a mind to lose his dignity and get fussed over with the Doctor's sonic for being ill, he would have returned the hug (with bonus rib-cracking). Instead, he settled for leaning casually across the Impala's hood, arms crossed as he gave the alien the same once-over he had received; Dean's only concession to the surprise visit being a huge grin on his face.

"So Doctor, you gonna stand around here, or let me in on what's going down?" Dean finally asked, leaning down over the right side of the Impala to rummage in the ice-box near her fender. He plucked out a cold Coca-Cola, brushing off stray flecks of ice before popping the tab and handing it to the Doctor; grin still twitching at the corners of his mouth as the Time-Lord sniffed at the drink before cautioning a sip.

"Ahhh," the Doctor coughed, blinking back tears from the carbonation. "Should I have a reason for dropping by to see an old friend?"

He waved randomly with his free hand as he searched out a place to set his drink before spying the bench with Dean's tools, eyes lighting up with relief as he set the can down, (giving another tiny polite cough), before spinning back in Dean's direction, silly grin fixed but uncertain. His shoulders relaxed when he saw Dean was more amused than insulted. Clapping his hands and rubbing them together, the scoped out the area they were standing in, nose wrinkling in interest.

"So basically," Dean said smoothly. "You landed wrong...again."

"A bit wrong, yeah," the alien shrugged, carefully not looking at him. He cautioned a smile in Dean's direction, fingers twisting around themselves as he searched for an explanation and came up blank. "But here I am! And here are you! And what happened to your Old Girl?"

The Doctor stalked awkwardly around the side of the Impala, peering through the windows as Dean relayed the (watered down) skinny on what had occurred over the past few weeks, relieved that the Doctor didn't give him any of the usual 'So sorry' and sympathetic noises he had come to expect from their small inner circle of friends. Instead he nodded in all the right places, made clucking noises with his tongue and happily buried himself under the hood when Dean opened it back up – sonicing busily as he checked the parts he had left behind.

"Well, looks like you've got her fixed up beautifully...sad to say it happens now and again. Don't know how many times I've had to fix or rebuild the TARDIS. She's getting on in years you know, like –"

"Some others you could mention," Dean laughed. "So, Doctor – what brings you here? And don't blame the TARDIS –"

"I don't know," the alien answered truthfully, Stetson carefully pulled low over his eyes, hiding what he was thinking. "I was aiming for my one last shot at Exsador – see if maybe I could get there before...never mind, what's this?"

Dean peered at the part he was tinkering with and rolled his eyes, knowing he was being evaded and wondering what could make the Doctor so cagey with him. He studied the Time-Lord's profile but could find nothing outwardly wrong -

So why did it feel like a shadow had fallen over this beautiful day?

"Her carburetor – come on, Doc...you knew that. What's going on? And where are the Ponds?"

The Doctor froze, his expression unreadable as he slowly straightened, head tilted so Dean couldn't see his eyes. He slowly put his sonic screwdriver back in his inner pocket, straightening his coat with a snap of his lapels, smile watery as he stared at the Impala's engine block; as if the car held all the answers he couldn't give.

"Amy and Rory...they – they're safe," the Doctor hedged, stepping out of Dean's space and distancing himself physically from anything Dean might think or say.

"Give me more credit than that," Dean said softly, shivering as a chill crawled over his skin. He wasn't sure why the Doctor was being this hesitant, but he knew it couldn't be good. "I know they must be safe, but the last time I saw them –"

"They're home," the Doctor interrupted, flashing a grim smile Dean's way before edging towards the workbench, long fingers reaching out to fiddle with the tools sitting there, jaw and shoulders set defensively tight against Dean's surprised stare. "Where they belong. Time for them to move on, yeah? Grow up. I'm not good with grown-ups, you know."

He laughed, the sound almost melancholy, and Dean could feel his heart twinge in his chest, wishing (for just a moment) that the Doctor hadn't come. His day had been going so well. He hadn't been thinking about his own sorrows, dealing with his own stresses – and then the madman with a box just dropped out of the sky carrying weight Dean didn't even want to know about.

And would never know about, if the Doctor had half a mind.

"Doctor –"

"So that's that! Guess I'd best be off – things to do, places to see...big day tomorrow."

"You just got here, Doctor," Dean pointed out. "Tomorrow can wait, can't it? It's just another day, right?"

The Doctor paused and Dean had to suppress the urge to flinch at the blank, careful expression on the Time-Lord's face. The Stetson's brim threw shadows across his eyes and Dean was again reminded of how very ancient the alien in front of him actually was; the youth of his features a disguise for him to hide behind, for him to pretend with.

"Right," the Doctor said flatly, voice neutral as he once again distanced himself from Dean in more than just physical ways. "Just another day. Guess I'd best get to it, then. Good to see you though, Dean – glad the Old Girl dropped me by here –"

"So you're just going to take off again?" Dean called to his back. "Not even gonna hang out a bit, see if the parts you put in even work?"

The Doctor stopped mid-stride and thought about it, head tucked down as he carefully weighed his need to escape against the thrill of riding in the '67 Chevy, skillfully piloted by one Dean Winchester.

Dean watched him mull it over and wondered again why the Doctor was being so evasive and hands-off with him. The Doctor he knew could barely contain himself in any given situation – his springy exuberance spilling over onto everyone he encountered.

This Doctor frightened him and left him a little sad, though he didn't quite know why. He looked the same (well, aside from his ridiculous hat and coat), he sounded the same – but his smile didn't fit and he looked...tired. Dean had seen that look on more than a few hunters and knew what it generally meant – for hunters at least. He couldn't imagine the Doctor falling to the same fate; his mouth went dry and his heart shrank at the very thought of anything happening to the Time-Lord. From all he had seen and heard, the alien was a constant in the Universe. For him to not _be_ there –

No, he was just over-anxious and imagining things (and how sad was it that he could think in Sam-speak now?). Too much Death, both literally and figuratively, at his door here of late. He needed to stop 'projecting', as Sam would put it.

And he needed to stop the Doctor before he got second thoughts and took off before Dean even got a chance to find out what the fuck was going on with him.

"Doctor," Dean called out, voice softer than he intended, a touch of worry bleeding through his words. "Whatever is happening, I'm sure it can wait. Just – come back, okay? You don't have to talk about it. We can hang out, talk cars and time machines if that's what you want."

Dean waited the Doctor out, radio filling in the silence with some inane commercial about a car dealership in Sioux City with rock-bottom prices on their newest imports. He carefully took in how still the Time-Lord was, the tightness of his shoulders, one foot poised just outside of his machine, head bowed as he considered Dean's offer against whatever tomorrow held for him. To think a few moments ago he had wished the Doctor hadn't arrived to ruin his day. Now Dean wished he would do anything but leave, recognizing the classic symptoms of Retreat and Protect – knowing this might be the last time he ever saw him. That was always a risk with the Doctor, but the Time-Lord's odd behavior gave him that cold fluttering in his gut.

"I suppose," the Doctor murmured, more to himself than to Dean. "I suppose a few minutes couldn't hurt."

"Not at all," Dean coaxed, turning to fold the tarp up and set it under the bench. He kept his movements languid and his back to the Doctor, knowing any pressure just might make him run no matter what he said. "What's time to a Time-Lord?"

"Indeed," the Doctor muttered darkly, his voice closer than it had been a minute before. "Time has never laid a glove on me."

'_Right_,' Dean thought, reaching out to snap the radio off. _'You've said that before_.'

"So," Dean coughed, closing the hood of the Impala with a thump. "Existadora –"

"Exsador," the Doctor corrected absently, shuffling closer to lean against the gleaming hood next to Dean, but with more inches between them than Dean really liked. Which was funny in and of itself. Only Sam, the Doctor and Cas could ever get that close and really, he preferred it that way. Though he wanted to do anything other than think of Castiel right now. "Seventeen galaxies lined up in perfect symmetry – held within a Time-Lock."

"Beautiful, huh?" Dean quizzed and snuck a glance at him from the corner of his eye, head tilted away as if he was looking across the yard instead of at the Time-Lord.

"Exquisite," the Doctor smiled. "Of course, there's a limited amount of time to see it in –"

"You said it was behind a Time-Lock."

"Oh, it is," the Doctor replied, the grin that Dean liked so well creeping over his face, chasing the shadows out of his eyes. "But you have to get it _just_ _right_ –"

"Taking anyone with you?"

The Doctor shut down again. His hands stilled their restless twiddling and his smile became uncomfortably fixed, even as he tried to shrug off the question.

"No. On my own for a bit – seeing the sights, mucking about in the universe for a while. Can't do it proper if you have someone tagging after you, getting themselves into trouble."

"You seem to do that quite well on your own," Dean teased, trying to lighten the mood and dismayed when it sailed over the Time-Lord's head, his expression just as closed as ever, arms crossed defensively.

"Yeah," the Doctor mused. "Guess I do, at that. Those were the days."

That final statement left Dean speechless, his brain unable to come up with a proper reply, as the Doctor pushed off from the Impala's hood. Again, the alien fiddled restlessly with the tools on the bench, while Dean tried to come up with something to say that wouldn't make the Doctor suddenly decide it was time to go. He watched quietly as the Time-Lord wandered around: picking up his abandoned cola, sniffing at it suspiciously, before carefully placing it back down (like it was a bomb that might go off), sneaking a glance at Dean over his shoulder as he toyed with a socket wrench. He looked almost relieved at Dean's unwillingness to pry and he set the wrench back down with a thump, nodding to himself as if he had decided something. Wetting one finger with his tongue, he ticked it through the air, before pointing towards the front of the yard, the gesture so familiar yet so odd Dean had to restrain the sudden urge to smile.

The Doctor had obviously shrugged off whatever was bothering him (at least that's how it would look to anyone else who was not Dean Winchester Avoider Extraordinaire), tilting his hat back so he could smack Dean with his 1000 watt grin, hands back to their endless fidgeting with each other, feet toeing the dirt like he was set to start dancing.

"Anyway, Exsador," the Time-Lord said suddenly, steering the conversation back to safer waters. "Part of my little ramble, or was set to be, before Old Girl dropped me here. Wonder why that is?"

"Maybe She likes me," Dean grinned, relaxing a bit as the Doctor's mood lifted, his smile a little more genuine than the one of a few minutes before.

"Ohh, She does indeed, cheeky old thing. Never could resist a handsome face, my Girl," the Doctor winked. "So Exsador is out then, I guess. A shame that – I was really looking forward to seeing it."

He poked one long finger at the cola can and sniffed, hands on his hips as his eyes drifted to the front of Bobby's yard, expression alight with curiosity.

"Was suppose to be my last stop on the farewell tour – though here's just as good as there, I suppose." He clapped one hand on Dean's shoulder giving him a vigorous shake as he turned on one heel, mind obviously made up to go exploring beyond the little patch of ground Dean had staked out for the day. "D'ya have any tea about? Think a good cuppa would just hit the spot right about now."

"Wait – Doctor...farewell tour?" Dean asked, but the Doctor was already gone, long legs eating up ground as he headed unerringly towards Bobby's house, looking for all intents and purposes like he owned the place.

Dean sighed and gathered up his tools, putting them back inside in the rolling tool table he had dragged out with him. He looked at the tarp he had just folded and put away, pulling it back out with a shrug as he settled it back over the car, covering her completely from hood to truck. He straightened out any creases he found on his final walk around, his eyes scanning absently for any stray tools he could have left out. Finally, the area was completely ship-shape, so he dumped out the remains of the Doctor's cola (knowing it would just got to waste anyway), and threw the empty can in the ice-chest, before grabbing it, and the radio for his short slog back to the house.

Clean up left him more at ease, the mechanical movements of covering the Impala from the elements and policing the area for stray parts and tools giving him time to sort out his thoughts without really having to think them. He also knew he was stalling; staving off the time when he had to prise what was going on out of the alien, without it looking like that was what he was doing.

'_More Sam's area than mine_,' he thought with a frown.

Dean glanced towards the house (and the direction the Doctor had gone) and wished – not for the first time – that he had that same soothing manner as Sam. That he had that ability to draw people out and get them to give up their secrets, because that was obviously what the Doctor needed (as much as he hated to admit it). The alien was generally talkative (nonstop if you gave him half a chance), but his hesitant half-answers were a sign that something was wrong.

Something he wasn't willing to talk about. Which naturally meant he needed to talk about it.

Dean knew it, the TARDIS knew it (which was how the Time-Lord had wound up here) and now he just needed to find a way to get him to open up. All without the aid of Sam, whom he knew was already shuffling as far away from the alien as he possibly could right about now.

"Farewell tour," he muttered, hefting the ice-chest to a more comfortable grip. "What the hell does that even _mean_?"

He toed the back door open, setting the radio on the side chest near the stairs, before heading to the kitchen. The sound of Bobby laughter make him pause for just a moment, warmth spreading through his chest at the ringing tone of Singer's deep chuckle. He tapped a foot down a bit harder than necessary to give Bobby an out if he needed it, poking his head around the corner to find the Doctor giving him a wink (of course the alien had heard him), Bobby turning a grin his way that dropped a good ten years off of his face.

"Dean!" Bobby said good-naturedly. "Glad to see you brought home a stray."

"Bobby," Dean greeted non-committally. He set the ice-chest down and rummaged for full cokes, putting them back in the tiny fridge, tossing the empties in the nearby garbage can housed just under the sink.

"Kinda didn't have a choice," he teased over his shoulder. "This one has a bad habit of crash-landing wherever. Can't drive worth a shit."

"Oi!" The Doctor groused, though there was laughter in his voice. "And language!"

"As I was sayin'," Bobby cut in, smile in his voice. "It is good to see you. Heard so much about you – and there was that fiasco two-three years ago –"

"You were invaluable," the Doctor interrupted, that happy enthusiasm spilling all over the tiny kitchen. "I have no idea what I would have done without you. Bit of a mess, but between you and the boys, well…"

Dean smiled at him as he dumped the leftover ice in the sink, knowing such praise was doing Bobby good, even if the man didn't know it. Too much blood, death and loss and not enough thanks in the business.

"Think nothing of it," Bobby said gruffly, though he sounded pleased. "Always glad to help out. Just…the _Doctor_ – never woulda thought I'd meet you!"

"Bad penny," the Doctor replied cheerfully. "That's me!"

He had removed his hat (out of deference Dean guessed, though Bobby wore his in the house all the time) and he was placing it on the table carefully so he could remove his overcoat. Dean was half-relieved to see his still wore his familiar tweeds; but what else would go with stupid suspenders and an even stupider bow-tie?

"Now, you said you had tea…?"

"Dunno how good it is," Bobby said apologetically. "Karen used to drink tea all the time. If it _is_ there, it's pretty old."

"No problem at all!" The Doctor grinned. "As it just so happens, I always carry a few teabags with me, just in case. Not as good as real tea – but it'll do in a pinch. Would you like to join me in a cup?"

"Don't mind if I do," Bobby obliged. "I'll put the teapot on –"

"Splendid!"

"If you two _ladies_ don't mind, I'm going to go hunt out Sam. Tell him we'll be back in a little bit, okay, Doctor?"

The Doctor nodded his absent-minded assent as Bobby gave Dean a begrudging jerk of his head, already knowing why Dean was hunting down his brother instead of making polite noises with him and the Doctor. Sam probably beat feet the second the alien stepped under the Devil's Trap, his aversion to him (and his dislike of Dean's affection for him), enough to make him retreat and quickly. Just because he didn't like the Doctor didn't mean he had to make him uncomfortable, though – so Sam probably snuck up the backstairs as soon as he heard the Time-Lord enter the front door.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face as he mounted the stairs, hoping Sam wouldn't be in one of those non-communicative moods, because he really didn't need that out of both him _and_ the Doctor.

Not today, anyway.

"Sam?"

"Come on in," Sam called from the bedroom. "Just doing some research."

Dean leaned in the doorway, hands in his pockets as he tried to look as relaxed as he didn't feel. Sam's quiet and lack of fire here of late was more off-putting than his breast-beating-'I'm-better-than-everyone-else' attitude of a few years ago. At least with that hostile stubbornness Dean knew where he stood. He also knew Lucifer stood in his stead more often than not, so keeping Sam calm and _here_ was more exhausting than returning from Hell had been.

"Shouldn't read with the lights off."

Sam snapped on the table lamp with a quirk of his lips, trying his best to look irritated but failing miserably. He looked tired, but genuinely glad to see Dean, even if Dean's less than welcome guest was literally right under their feet.

At least he wasn't looking to Dean's left or right at the moment. Which Dean would be more than happy to chalk up to a win at this point.

"Find anything else we need to know?"

"No…no luck," Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in his chair with a barely stifled whimper. "Just more of the same 'Elder Gods' 'blah-blah-blah' and since they were long gone from the earth before we were a twinkle in God's eye, we have virtually no information to go on. Just a lot of rumors and speculation. Seems even the angels didn't know much about these guys – and you know how demons love a gossip mill."

"Long on the exaggeration, short on knowledge, yeah – got it," Dean sympathized.

He walked around Sam's chair to drag his duffel out from under the left-hand bed, rummaging for a new t-shirt and his deodorant. It seemed no matter how much Bobby fussed that they should 'unpack and stay a spell' they were always unpacking but never actually doing it.

He sniffed under his arms and decided he was good enough to just slap on some extra odor killer without taking a spit bath. He yanked on his (semi) fresh t-shirt while Sam clacked away at the laptop's keyboard, the sound everything that was home, even if the atmosphere was still tense from well…everything.

"So…not gonna get all cleaned up for your boyfriend?" Sam snarked, fingers barely slowing their break-neck pace over the keys. "Thought you'd at least try to smell nice."

"He likes 'em manly," Dean snarked back (but only after he had rocked back on his heels over how damned ordinary their conversation was), his chest tight with happiness and confusion. Fast on the heels of those feelings was dread that it wouldn't last. It never did – not for them. "Look, Sam –"

"It's okay," Sam muttered, not really mad – just lost in whatever he was reading on the computer screen. "But…something's wrong isn't it?"

"I think so," Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I just…he's not here on a case, he doesn't seem to be aware of ours – or if he is –"

"He can't help us," Sam finished, darting him a thin (but warm) smile. "Timey-wimey –"

"Spacey-wacey," Dean laughed. "Yeah…something like that."

"Well," Sam said cautiously, giving another stretch before reaching for his coffee cup. "He passed all the tests. I heard him as I was coming up the steps. He even asked if he was going to get the 'silver-test' – all excited. Never seen anybody get happy over being cut with a silver knife."

"He heals faster," Dean shrugged, as Sam frowned at the dregs of his cold coffee. "He thinks everything is exciting the first time around. Weirdo."

"Why do you think he's here, then?" Sam asked, setting the coffee down and looking up at Dean with genuine curiosity. "I mean, if he's not here needing help and if he's not here to _give_ help…"

"I don't know," Dean replied, swallowing back the sudden bite of fear that wanted to sour the conversation. "He's acting odd, too – you know how he likes to talk –"

"Oh yeah," Sam sighed with a roll of his eyes. "Can't get him to stop half the damned time. Even when he makes no sense…_especially_ when he makes no sense."

"Well…he's not talking. I mean, he's _talking_ – but it's like he's not really saying anything. And he won't get within five feet of me. He acts like I might bite him or something."

Sam eyeballed him with a grin, but only for a moment, realizing how serious the situation actually was. He may not like the Time-Lord, but he had spent a great deal of time with him, so he had a pretty good sense of what constituted normal behavior and what didn't.

"Did the TARDIS land wrong again? Maybe that's all there is to it…maybe She dumped him off and he doesn't need to be here, or She's preventing him from getting somewhere else," Sam mused, eyes tracking Dean as he began to pace the small confines of the room.

"Well, that's part of it – but not all of it. I get the feeling that She landed here deliberately and that She thinks he needs to see me, but what for? I can't wrap my head around it." Dean groused, ever aware of time passing, and knowing that the Doctor could bolt at any minute with how restless he was behaving.

"Did he say anything odd? Okay, scratch that – odd for him, that is?" Sam queried, looking genuinely concerned – which didn't exactly help Dean's anxiety over the (frankly weird) situation.

"Just that he dropped off the Ponds. They were 'safe'. Oh! And he said something about seventeen galaxies behind a Time-Lock and how he wanted to get a crack at it during his farewell tour." Dean shrugged. "You know how he exaggerates sometimes."

"Wait – farewell tour? What the hell is _that_ suppose to mean?" Sam asked sharply.

"I dunno, I don't even think he realized he said it, it was like he was talking more to himself half the time than me," Dean replied, scrubbing his hand through his hair again.

"Sounds like he's been alone a while," Sam hedged, glancing at Dean from under his bangs.

"Yeah, sounds like."

"Do you think – "

"No…_ no_! C'mon, Sam – this is the _Doctor_ we're talking about here!" Dean protested, knowing Sam was aiming for the same answer he had rejected as being unthinkable.

"Maybe," Sam said quietly. "But this is the same..._man_ who said that everything has its time."

"What – and he'd avoid me instead of coming to me to say goodbye?" Dean tried to not be hurt by the thought, but if the Doctor was going to...you know, _die_ – why wouldn't he drop by to say goodbye to him?

"Would you?" Sam asked, grasping just what his big brother was thinking.

Dean deflated, flopping on the bed to rub at his eyes, more tired at that moment than a tune-up on his baby called for.

"No...no, I guess I wouldn't," He admitted.

He squashed that dark side of himself that wished the TARDIS had just kept on keeping on, feeling ashamed at how he could easily just fold the friendship he had fought so hard for on the idea that it may just end with or without his consent...again. Castiel rose to the front of his mind and he hastily shoved him away. This was not the same thing – not by a long shot.

"Then, what are you doing here?" Sam asked, voice still soft with just a hint of prodding.

"Coming to tell you that I'm going for a car ride with him – and that I'd be back soon," Dean groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "And maybe get pointers for how to get him to talk."

"A ride in the Impala?" Sam asked, then nodded as he got it. "The parts he left in – I see."

"Yeah, but – if he's being all skittish...we could be jumping to conclusions here, Sam."

"Well then," Sam shrugged turning back to the laptop. "Guess you'd better go find out."

"C'mon dude – how'm I gonna get him to talk to me? I'm no good at this stuff," Dean pleaded, only for Sam to pause and laser him a look that he couldn't quite read, but figured wasn't a good thing.

"And I've got Lucy riding shotgun in my noggin with a penchant for coming out to play when we least need it. Besides, he's _your_ friend –"

"_Sammy_ –"

"If he'll talk to anyone, it'll be you, not me. He doesn't want a diplomat or hand-holder. I could never get much out of him, anyway. He needs Dean, his friend, nobody else."

Sam gave him a small smile before turning back to his computer again, wriggling his shoulders like he was setting in for the long haul. Which also meant the conversation was over. Dean smiled to himself, standing up to stretch and clapping one hand against Sam's shoulder, relieved when his brother didn't flinch (as he did so often nowadays).

"Guess I'd better get down there, then."

"Yeah, before he comes up with an excuse to run," Sam conceded. He glanced up as Dean passed by, taking a swat at Dean's elbow with the back of his hand. "Hey, do what you can, okay? I mean, we may not get along or whatever – but...he's been there for us when we've been in a pinch. I don't want to see him hurt or...just – let him know what he means to us, okay?"

"That's your department," Dean groused, pretending to be bored with the idea.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam mumbled, mind already back in research mode. "Tell Bobby I'll be down for some more coffee here in a minute –"

'_Translate – half an hour_,' Dean thought.

"- and to save me some."

"Bobby's having _teaaaa_," Dean drawled batting his lashes.

"_Really_?" Sam blinked in stunned surprise, before a mischievous grin worked its way across his lips.

"Really." Dean grinned back. "The Doktah wanted a cuppa – so they're down there like two old biddies, probably lifting their pinkies and everything."

He and Sam bumped fists in glee, before Dean snagged a fresh over-shirt, heading for the door.

"Fodder for _years_," Sam called.

"You know it," Dean laughed over his shoulder, only to run smack into the Doctor as he stepped out of their door.

"Jesus – _fuck_! Don't do that, man!" He wheezed, stilling his automatically reflex to punch, practically staggering backwards with the force of it.

"Language," the Doctor hummed, then quirked an eyebrow, smile dancing at the edges of his mouth. "Robert and I are done with our...tea. And no – pinkies weren't involved, though it was a close thing, I assure you."

Dean glanced at Sam and shrugged mouthing 'Ears like a bat' while Sam was mouthing 'Robert?' back. They both shrugged again and Dean turned back to the Doctor, who was smiling at the exchange with some amusement.

"And people say _I_ don't get out enough," the Time-Lord chuckled.

Dean reddened and headed for the stairs, pausing when he saw the Doctor hadn't followed. He turned to find the Time-Lord staring at his brother and was going to call out when the Doctor coughed to get Sam's attention. He couldn't see what Sam was doing, but he guessed that he had stopped to look up because the alien's gaze got more intense, his voice pitched low like this was meant for just him and Sam; leaving Dean feeling like he was intruding.

"Just to let you know…that won't work forever. I'm sorry, but it won't keep him out for long. You'll find your way, I promise you. One day, he will go away and he will never come back – but there will be a lot you will have to deal with between then and now. You've always been strong, Samuel Winchester – that has never been the issue. The question is, can you be weak when the time comes for you to be so? Reeds bend, oaks do not." The Doctor paused and reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket, rooting around for a moment before he pulled out what looked like a stone, chucking it into the doorway. He could hear the soft 'smack' of Sam catching it and held his breath, wondering how Sam would react to the Doctor's cryptic statements.

"Even if you don't know what I'm talking about now – you will soon. And…I am sorry – I truly am," the Time-Lord murmured, brow crinkling as he turned away, whatever Sam would have replied with lost to his back. You could have dropped a pin in the silence he left in his wake, not looking at Dean as he swept past him down the stairs, the rumble of his voice heard as he turned to go back into the kitchen.

Dean waffled between wanting to check on Sam and go after the Doctor but was saved by Sam exiting from the room, face as white as a sheet, coffee cup clutched loosely in one hand, the stone-thing gripped tightly in his other fist.

"You okay? Sam?" A little breathless, but he could be forgiven that. He'd forgotten the Doctor could do that trick – go so serious so quick and drop a bomb in your lap without you having the first idea of how to defuse it.

"Yeah..._yeah_, I'm-I'm fine," Sam stuttered, looking anything but. "You'd probably better –"

"Yeah," Dean rasped, making it halfway down the steps on shaky legs before he heard Sam call his name at the top of the stairs, stumbling in his haste to stop and turn around at the same time.

"Sam?"

"Find out what's going on, okay? And –"

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "I got it. And I'll tell Bobby about the coffee, too."

"Actually," Sam said faintly. "Tell Bobby I'm going to be laying down for a while."

And his tall form disappeared back in the direction he came, steps thumping overhead before the floor creaked one final time, signaling that Sam had, indeed, gone to bed. Dean shook it off and rushed into the kitchen, caught by an almost vertigo when he encountered the twin smiles of Bobby and the Doctor as he rounded the door way. The Doctor was already half in his coat, acting for all the world like he hadn't just gone upstairs and rocked Sam's universe.

"Ahhh, Dean – almost ready to go," the Time-Lord chirruped, straightening his coat with a snap. He turned back to Bobby, his smile so big his face should have cracked, eyes crinkling at the corners as he shook the man's hand vigorously. "It's been a _delight_, Robert – truly a delight! You brew a smashing cup of tea!"

"Trick is not to boil the water – too many people do that. Or over-steep it." Bobby shrugged, his own smile enough to stagger Dean with the fact that it even existed, much less that it could cover that much of Bobby's face.

"Well, if I ever want another, I know where to come. Karen did right by you, bless her," the Doctor said and yanked Bobby into a hug that could crack the ribs of a much younger man. To Dean's further surprise, Bobby let himself be hugged, slapping one hand across the Doctor's back before letting him go. As an afterthought, Bobby grabbed the Stetson off the back of a kitchen chair, popping it back on the Doctor's head as slick as you'd please.

"Thanks for dropping by, Doctor," Bobby rumbled. "You are welcome here any time."

"Thank you, Robert. Now we'd best be off I suppose – think Dean is rather surprised I'm still here," with a teasing look shot in Dean's direction. "I think I'm suppose to have run off by now."

Bobby laughed, giving Dean a knowing look, then clapped the Doctor on the shoulder as he passed by.

"Just you boys be careful, okay? And Dean – call if it gets too late. You know how Sam worries."

"Sure..._Robert_," Dean said slyly, grinning when Bobby made a threatening gesture behind the Doctor's turned back. "Sam's gonna be down for a while, though – don't think he feels well."

Dean shifted his eyes to the Doctor's retreating form and Bobby nodded, worried frown settling it's familiar away across his features. When the thunk of the Doctor's boots had faded towards the back door, Bobby took a glance at the ceiling, mouth curling in as he sighed his worry.

"I'll keep an eye on Sam – I'm sure he'll be fine after a bit. Doctor shook him up some, huh?"

"Yeah...just a bit – look, I'd better go." Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder and pulled on his over-shirt. "Might be a while."

"Might," Bobby said darkly. "Find out what's going on with our Time-Lord friend, huh? He's hiding something big – we might not like what that something is, either."

"Think I've got an idea what it is," Dean sighed. "And no...we won't like it. I'll be back – save some coffee for Sam, think he's going to try to pull another all-nighter."

"Will do, boy. Now get going before our alien friend decides his machine is a better bet than the Impala."

Dean gave him a short, distracted grin before turning to follow the Doctor's trail, pausing long enough to grab his jacket and check the pockets for his keys and cell-phone, before throwing it on as he swung out the door. Bobby listened for the receding echo of his footsteps, then the muted bang of the screen door as it slammed shut behind him. A few minutes later the deep rumble of the Impala floated through the confines of the house, the sound fading to a throaty purr and then silence as Dean drove away with the Doctor (presumably) in tow.

Bobby took a deep breath and climbed the stairs, gritting his teeth slightly as his bad knee protested the first three steps, his ears open for any sign that Dean had turned back around. He guessed Sam had been listening too, as the creak of the floorboards above told him the younger Winchester was now up and about – likely heading towards the stairs.

"I'm comin' up, Sam," Singer called out and was gratified to hear another creak followed by the scraping of a chair across the floor as he hit the last step, unconsciously blowing a sigh of relief as his knee gave a final twinge before falling silent. He massaged his upper leg before slouching in the bedroom doorway, unknowingly adopting Dean's previous pose as he stared Sam down, frown practically adhered to his moustache.

"Well – didja tell 'im?"

"Tell him what?" Sam retorted looking more tired and ill-tempered than Bobby had seen him in a while.

"_Sam_ – "

"I _couldn't_! Bobby, I –" Sam shook his head, burying his face in his hands like that could block out the glare Singer was sending his way. "I just couldn't, okay?"

"He needed to know –" Bobby started sternly.

"_What_?" The younger Winchester practically exploded out of his chair, fear and rage twisting his features as he stopped half a foot from Bobby before backing off to pace like a caged tiger. His fingers pulled and clawed through the shaggy mess of his hair as he tried to sort out his thoughts, get himself in order. "Tell him that yet another one of his friends is going to _die_? That he is just...going to step right in front of a bullet for no good _reason_?"

"He has a good reason," Bobby stated calmly. "I'm sure of it."

"Oh, yeah – _fixed point_! What a _great_ fucking reason! And this from a-a man who rebooted the entire fucking universe to _avoid_ a fixed point! I just...I couldn't tell him, Bobby."

"I know," the older man sighed, snagging the chair and flopping into it heavily. "But he's going to find out –"

"From the Doctor himself if he can get it out of him –"

"And when he does, don't you think he would have rather have been prepared?"

Bobby watched Sam's shoulders slump, his restless pacing stilled as he thought about it. It almost hurt, meeting a creature who was going to die (rather violently) in less than two months time – a man (if you could call him that) who had been around as long as there had been words to describe him; who had been saving and fixing the universe before there really even _was_ a universe. It was astounding, really – extraordinary. But when you actually _met_ him –

"Crazy old man, isn't he?" Bobby chuckled.

"Yeah," a smile tugged at Sam's lips and he blinked moisture out of his eyes as he turned to grin at Bobby. "Crazy...and a non-stop talker. 'S no wonder Dean likes him so much – you never really know what he's going to say next."

"_Horrible_ dress sense –"

"Right? That bow-tie! But it's also the way he walks, you know? Like he never knows where to place his feet –"

"Or his hands."

"Klutz-extraordinaire."

They nodded at one another grinning and Bobby felt like a huge pressure had been taken off of his shoulders. Sam looked pretty relieved as well, though his smile was still crooked and a little sad. He might not like the Doctor, but Sam could admit he was definitely a man who made an impression.

"If Rory calls again –" Sam asked softly.

"I'll let you know," Bobby replied. He heaved to his feet, grimacing as his knee protested the rash maneuver, and made his way to the door, thinking another cup of tea just might be the ticket. "He was just trying to be kind, Sam...let Dean know what was coming."

"I know," was the tired response. "I just...I need some time. If the Doctor tells him, I can slide it in there, but if not...he took Castiel so hard. I don't think we can lose anyone else, Bobby. It will tear him apart."

"I know, kid...but – he'll have to be told sometime." He turned in the doorway and studied Sam with sharp eyes, noticing he looked more than tired. "Are you okay? I know the Doctor said something –"

"He just confirmed a few things I already knew, Bobby. He just...does that sometimes. Think I'll go ahead and lay down for a bit after all. Just let me know if Rory or Amy call, okay?"

"Will do, boy...get some rest," Bobby muttered.

Obviously he would be drinking tea a lot in his future.

**DW~SPN~DW~SPN~DW**

It took Dean a second to find the Doctor; he wasn't beside the Impala, but the TARDIS was still parked in the yard which meant he hadn't left...yet. So it was a safe bet he was still around somewhere. After pausing long enough to remove the tarp (yet again) from the freshly buffed contours of his girl, he went searching, knowing he probably wouldn't have to go far to find him. As luck would have it, Dean's hunch paid off and it didn't even take as long as he had calculated for.

The Time-Lord was maybe twenty-five feet from where the Impala sat, behind a towering pile of crushed and mangled cars, sonic working busily over a defunct orange Vega that looked as if its better days were centuries ago. He mumbled to himself as he took readings, pausing only to jam his upper body through one of the broken passenger windows, the echo of his screwdriver setting the junked cars around him to vibrating in a dangerous, off-putting rattle.

Dean ignored the angry rumble from the haphazard towers of metal around him and strolled to the Doctor's side, grinning despite himself. He hadn't realized how much he had missed the Time-Lord until now, really – the sheer oddness of the Doctor defied description until you had spent time with him. Even then, it still defied description, but you were a little more comfortable on where you sat in the grand scheme of things.

"– that's it, there's a girl...just what I was looking for. Think that would do nicely. You know, as I was saying, I remember you in your heyday. Now, don't be like that. No, it wasn't much – nor was it for very long, but you still got a better shake than the Edsel. Or the Pacer – now _there's_ a disaster that never knows when to stop running – or start starting –"

"I don't think you'll find anything in there that you can use for the TARDIS, Doctor," Dean said, pitching his voice so he could be heard through the sorry looking gaps in the rusting vehicle.

To the Doctor's credit he didn't startle – or if he did, Dean couldn't tell. Then again, he _did_ have ears like a bat. Instead, he got a muttered 'Hang on' and the pleasure of watching the Time-Lord try to wriggle his way back out of the open window, which required a lot of flailing of his legs and twisting of his upper torso, before he slid out with an almost audible popping noise.

'_It's like hanging out with your very own Looney Tune_,' Dean marveled, unable to stop the silly grin on his face from going wider – especially when he saw that stupid Stetson was still firmly jammed on top of the Doctor's head, although at a slightly jauntier angle than before.

The Doctor flashed him a distracted grin, trying to straighten his Stetson while squinting at the read-out on the screwdriver, which was a bit like watching someone try to pat the top of their head, rub their tummy, and chew gum at the same time.

"You'd be surprised," the Time-Lord finally answered, smacking the sonic closed and sliding it smoothly into the inner pocket of his coat. He wriggled the hat a little straighter and smiled more directly at Dean, his eyes dancing with mirth as though he could see what Dean had been thinking. "There are quite a few parts in American vehicles that splice quite nicely with Her own parts. And vice-versa, as we know. Shall we?"

"After you, Doc," Dean laughed, sweeping his hand out towards the Impala's direction.

The Doctor nodded his assent with a funny little jerk of his head and ambled past him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking for all the world like a stork trying to find its footing. Dean started after him, then paused and glanced at the Vega, half-wondering what the Doctor had been messing with in there, but half-afraid that if he stopped to poke around, then the Time-Lord might just keep on going to his TARDIS.

He jogged a couple of steps towards him, keeping up with his long-legged stride easily - his years of practice with Sam coming in handy.

"So, what were you looking at?" He queried, brain scrambling to come up with a conversation starter. "Maybe I can help you get to it -"

"No, never mind," the Doctor said easily, waving off Dean's suggestion without even looking his way. "Won't need it after all, it seems. Old habit, though - there's a Girl! How are you, you wonderful, _gorgeous_ machine?"

Dean stopped, puzzled at his brisk and dismissive manner, and hung back a little while the Doctor crooned and petted over the Impala's sleek body, fingers reverently brushing her trunk, her roof and the chrome at her windows. If Sam had done that, not only would Dean have yelled at him for marring her wax-job (after tossing some holy water in his face), he would have spent the next ten minutes buffing out imaginary finger-marks anywhere his brother had touched; just to irritate Sam if nothing else. But with the Doctor, he didn't mind so much; the feather-light caresses and soft cooing noises telling him the Doctor loved her almost as much as he did. At the very least, he respected her as Dean's home, not just a vehicle. Which...considering the TARDIS and what she was to the Doctor…

"You sure, Doc? It wouldn't be any trouble to -"

"_I'm sure_," the Time-Lord said tightly, hands falling away from the Chevy like she had hurt him somehow. "I just - I'm sorry. I'm sure, Dean, thank you. Is she open?"

He barely paused to ask the question before pulling out his sonic once more and unlocking the passenger side, throwing Dean a crooked smile as he tucked it away again with a slight gesture of his fingers, popping open the door to ease himself in. Dean was taken aback by the almost angry interruption, followed by the soft, but sincere apology - two in under an hour.

'_He never apologizes...What is going _on _with him?'_

"Would you, ahhh...you wanna drive?" Dean asked, unsure why he _did _ask, only feeling it was important. The Doctor stopped to look at him, one elbow leaned on the roof, eyes unreadable, that crooked smile looking icy and sad all at once. He knew how odd it sounded, asking the alien if he wanted to take her for a spin - he barely let Sam drive her - but..."Give her parts a test?"

The Doctor took a second to answer, gaze dropping away as he considered the offer, tongue peeking out to swipe at his lower lip - a nervous habit Dean knew well - and then shook his head, smile a little softer around the edges.

"No, I'll leave her to a professional. Besides, it'll be easier to check her systems if I'm not distracted by small things like speed limits, road obstructions, police officers, traffic signs..._people_." Another smile, but one that was distorted by the shadows thrown from the Stetson. "Some other time?"

Dean felt another cold wave creep down his spine, the Doctor's last statement somehow eerie in its innocuousness. Like he just lied - even though he hadn't said anything that could be construed as a lie.

_'Rule Number One.'_

"Sure, Doc," Dean replied, lips almost numb as if he had just made a promise that he would be unable to keep. "Another time then."

But the Doctor was already seated, the 'kerchunk' of the door closing cutting off Dean's last words as if he had never made them.

Dean blinked at the space the Time-Lord had been occupying, the chills being replaced with a faint surge of anger at the Doctor's curt and dismissive manner. Vagueness and flat-out secrets had become a large bone of contention with him the past two years, as he had watched friends and innocent bystanders die and get injured from some yahoo's need-to-fucking-know attitude. Sucked even worse when you got that from a friend, someone you considered family; he knew all about that first hand.

He stopped to breathe for a second, trying to reign in his temper, knowing the Doctor wasn't being deliberately obtuse for the sake of it. He was trying (most likely) to protect Dean from something and he wouldn't have the slightest clue how such 'protection' had blown up in all their faces the last few years. First Sam, then Bobby, then Castiel –

'_He probably doesn't know about any of that. And even if he did, it's not like he would consider his secrets to have earth-shaking consequences for our little patch of the universe._'

He didn't even bother to complete the thought, knowing full well that if the Doctor thought that his secrets, his problems even had a chance of affecting Dean, Sam or Bobby, he would never have shown up in the first place, regardless of where the TARDIS landed. He quashed the next thought on the heels of that one, that damnable wish that the Doctor had found someone else, _anyone_ else, to bother that day – as it was a thought unworthy of either of them.

He nodded to himself and rolled his jaw, reaching down to open the driver's side door.

"Okay," he said softly.

'_Here goes nothin'_.'

Turning to greet him as he sat down, the Time-Lord's radiant smile was like that of a five-year old finding Christmas, and it eased some of the nervous panic that had taken the place of Dean's anger. The Doctor rubbed his hands together briskly and leaned back against the seat, seeming too big for such a tight space (which was saying something, since Sam sat there nearly every damned day); but likely that was just the Stetson all by itself.

"Ready to go?" the Doctor asked brightly and Dean had to fight to keep from grinning back at him, sure the upcoming conversation was going to be anything but amusing; though the Time-Lord's happy enthusiasm was catching, even at the worst of times.

"Yeah, Doc," Dean replied, turning over her engine with a practiced twist of his wrist. He gunned her for a second (getting another smile of delight from the alien) before putting her in 'drive', leaning back as the car shot forward, heading for the entrance to Singer Salvage.

'_Ready to go_.'


	3. Chapter 3

**~Well, All the Love From Me~**

She don't like other women, she likes whips and chains.

_The old Trans Am screamed as the Doctor threw her into over-drive, allowing her back wheels to drift, spraying gravel and salt as Dean whooped in the passenger side, exhaustion becoming exhilaration as the alien put the aging vehicle through its paces, clutch and shift working in a smooth blur as the wreck spun on a 180 degree angle. The demons surrounding the car howled, falling away as salt and rock hit them with the speed of bullets._

She likes cocaine and flippin' out with great Danes.

She's about all I can handle, it's too much for my brain.

_The Doctor was grinning, even as he looked more pale and exhausted than ever, deep grey hollowing his eyes, blue tint to his lips, his skin the pale off-white that suited ghosts more than living beings; though his gaze was clearer than it had been since Dean and Sam had rescued him from the field over two weeks ago. He looked manic, _wild_ – pure joy rolling off of him in waves. Dean had a feeling they were both in their element, danger and terror at their heels, freedom right in front of them._

It's got me under pressure,

It's got me under pressure.

"_Got 'em on the run, Doc!" Dean hollered over the whine of the engine, radio blaring at top volume. He laughed and was pleasantly surprised when the Doctor joined in, the edge of hysteria riding in the crack of their voices; adrenaline, fear, and bone-deep weariness plaguing them both (and maybe no small amount of pain on the Doctor's side), but they laughed as if compelled to; the situation anything but funny and only made hilarious because of that little fact alone._

_The Doctor licked merriment from his lips, eyes crinkling at the corners as he popped the clutch, letting her spin forward, mowing down the two demons in front of them not smart enough to get out of the way -_

I'm gonna give her a message,

Here's what I'm gonna say:

"It's all over."

_The old Trans Am leaping forward like a panther, back wheels catching and throwing more gravel as they accelerated out of the hotel parking lot, the grinding howl of the engines distorting the howls of the demons as they tried (and failed) to pursue them, their forms fading in the distance as the Doctor walked the car up to 120, before whipping out his funny pen and depressing the button. The pen made an eerie whining noise and popped apart like shrapnel in the alien's hand –_

(Dean didn't see that, though – not yet, not until much later –)

_but the old car responded with yet another roar, radio squealing static in brief bursts as the car pushed for another 30 miles an hour. Dean clung to his seat with steel fingers, throat raw from screaming – though whether it was terror or joy, he couldn't tell; and with this much pure _feeling_ pulsing through him, really he didn't care._

She might get out a nightstick

And hurt me real, real bad

_The Doctor was laughing, the sound giddy and not too sane; stupid bow-tie loose and dangling around his neck, button-up only half-buttoned, braces still loose on his too-thin shoulders –_

(While blood flowed from his wrist and fingers, but Dean still hadn't seen that – and ohhh, how Winchester would curse about it later –)

_his presence so alien and yet so _perfect_ that Dean felt another surge of odd emotion, though it was not unwelcome by any means._

_This was what it meant to be alive – this right _here_…_

**SPN~DW~SPN~DW~SPN**

The quiet was starting to get to him, even the radio's babble -

_Latest brands of furniture at low, low prices! This weekend only!_

Wasn't enough to fill the silence. The Doctor's presence was understated in a way Dean thought could never be possible, leaving him to stop and check his passenger every few minutes to make sure he hadn't faded away like a ghost.

The Doctor didn't even acknowledge him (odd in itself), too busy staring at the passing scenery to even give Dean an encouraging smile, a slight that was lonely and infuriating all at once. Dean felt more like he had kidnapped the man than invited him along for a car ride – and he had no idea where to even _begin_ this conversation he didn't even want to have.

'_Shoulda brought Sam along anyway, he knows how to talk, fill in the gaps – man, I _suck_ at this sharing and caring shit_.'

But even his inner snark was half-hearted and he left off thinking about it too much or he'd start wishing the Doctor away again – and he had a funny feeling if he did that, the Doctor would comply. And likely he'd never see him again.

So he forced himself to occupy the silence by thinking on the seven ways to can detect a demon, and mentally stripped the Colt, putting it back together piece by piece while listening to his girl, every squeak, rattle or chuffing noise telling him what he needed to work on next. Thankfully, even with the beating she took, he didn't have much he had left to do – fine tuning the carburetor, check the loose head (at least that's what it sounded like) and put more water (just a tad) in her radiator. The parts the Doctor put in were a smooth hum he had gotten used to over the past year or so, so he ticked through them, but dismissed wondering how he could fix them. The Doctor would tell him if they needed adjustment.

If the Doctor ever talked to him, that was.

Ten minutes after they left Singer Salvage, the silence from the alien became too much – Dean's thoughts spinning around the past adventures they'd had and not enough on the future that he was walking into. The radio's inane prattle -

_Seriously, seven minutes of commercials?_

Was giving him a headache and the road was starting to become a nonsensical blur as anxiety gripped him; the Doctor's weird mood crawling beneath his skin and settling like an itch that he couldn't quite reach.

He contemplated turning around.

_He wants to go so bad, _let_ him!_

He contemplated pulling over. He thought about flooring it and seeing if he could garner a response that way (a fussy Doctor was better than a quiet one). Then he thought about just leaning on the brakes and chewing him out for being a downer and what the fuck was his problem _anyway_? Dean's company beneath him now?

He did none of these things, though he badly wanted to.

Another two minutes crawled by and he could feel a war between worry and temper start raging. A glance at the Doctor showed him that the man hadn't moved since they had pulled off, barely a twitch; and if he was breathing, it wasn't readily apparent.

Dean leaned over and snapped off the radio with a twist, taking a deep breath to get started with a conversation that would end badly (he knew) and wishing for the five hundredth time that he was good with words. He could never get his thoughts, his ideas across properly – and it had blown up in his face time and time again. He knew this was another situation where it could go wrong (and very quickly) but he was never one to be stopped by a challenge – nor could he ever let a feeling this heavy pass without comment.

He was just about to open his mouth (and likely say the wrong thing) when the Doctor suddenly spoke, his voice almost harsh with the sudden reverb of sound in the previously silent car and Dean flinched -

_hands still steady at the wheel, foot never wavering on the gas pedal_

in response, his own thoughts having been so filled with what he was going to say, he didn't anticipate any other voice than his own.

"Turn left at the next intersection." his murmur low, but startling, body still motionless, leaning into the passenger door. Dean would have thought he'd imagined it except for the spike to his heart rate and the drift of the Impala's wheels; mildly shocked and cursing himself for relaxing his guard to where he _could_ be shocked like that.

"Doctor that way just leads to -" Dean started to protest.

"Left...please." Firm, brooking no argument, and Winchester had to bite back a sarcastic retort.

"Fine," Dean sighed. "Left it is."

He blew through the stop-sign seconds later, not even questioning how the Doctor even knew of the turn-off, noting how the Time-Lord didn't even protest his 'lack of regard for traffic laws' (he could almost hear it in his head, too); wrenching the wheel to the left and smiling to himself when the Chevy followed through without a hitch, tires churning against the road with a low whirr as she shimmied at a sharp angle and straightened once more, rolling along like she owned the pavement.

The Doctor didn't seem to notice -

_Thought he loved her_

face still turned to the window, hands still in his lap; their restlessness absent – calm as their owner.

"Doctor -"

The Time-Lord pulled the sonic out of his inner pocket and aimed it at the dashboard, screwdriver whirring softly to itself as he depressed the button. He only held it for a few seconds before snapping it open with a practiced flick of his wrist, turning slightly more towards Dean to peer at the reading (all for show, Dean knew – but sheer habit), before sliding it back into his pocket, not acknowledging Dean had spoken. The alien turned back to the window and the reflection thrown back for a moment had Dean chewing his lower lip, unsure more than ever how to proceed but knowing he had to. He had never seen the Time-Lord look so desolate and lost, not even when things were at their worst.

'_That's it, I gotta say something about this..._'

"So...what does the sonic say?" Not what he intended to start out with, but it was comprised of actual words, so it would have to do.

"Parts are all at peak efficiency," the Doctor rumbled, voice still pitched low as if he was reciting the facts to himself more than to Dean. "No major anomalies. Though...was this car in an accident?"

Dean blinked and snuck a glance at him -

_Back still turned, forehead rested against the glass, distorted view of closed eyes – tired? - slight frown, too pale...what the _fuck_..._

"Doctor, I told you about Cas and..." Dean took a deep breath, the headache that was trying to make itself known thumping away just behind his eyes and he hated repeating himself and wasn't he listening the _first_ time?

_He always listens...what is going _on_?_

"So you did," the Doctor said casually. "Sorry, I remember I...I'm sorry."

"Stop _saying_ that!" Dean roared – and anger won over worry just like that. But that wasn't true either; fear (old, tired, familiar) thumped through his veins and he had to shout or he'd go crazy. It just wasn't enough that his brother was acting funny, Bobby was beginning to look so old, Cas was...was – it just wasn't enough, was it? Then the Universe dumped a Doctor that wasn't the Doctor on him, looking just as tired and old and done-in as he felt – and he wouldn't stop acting like a stranger and it was so familiar and new and _infuriating_ -

"Just..._stop_," Dean breathed, trying to rein himself in and further depressed by the fact the Doctor didn't even flinch, but his eyes in the window were scrunched tighter, frown deeper as he likely kicked himself for his blunder. He was good at that; Dean knew that because _Dean_ was good at that. And because once upon a time, Dean had known the Doctor.

He'd walk through fire for the man, didn't he get that?

"What is going on with you? And don't tell me it's nothing. I know it isn't – why are you here?"

It sounded confrontational, hostile and angry, but Dean was just too tired to smooth it over. He knew he shouldn't be angry at the Time-Lord; he hadn't really done anything wrong besides land in Singer Salvage at the worst time. He wished he could take it back, he wished he could sound less angry just because the Doctor would be forced to respond to that alone; he knew the man would just take the anger and hostility and roll with it, never protest it -

'_Because that's what _I_ do_.'

They were so alike and yet so vastly _different_ it staggered him. But it made him feel anchored, content and warm; like he was with Castiel…

"_Doctor_..."

"I don't know," the Time-Lord answered honestly. He seemed to steel himself and sat back in the seat, fingers restlessly tangling together and apart again as he looked anywhere but at Dean, that ever-present frown marring his features and making him look so, so old.

Dean hated that look.

He waited another beat, but it seemed the Doctor wasn't going to elaborate further, his eyes already drifting back towards the window – shutting Dean out and _dammit_, he was not going to have that. There was no point in coming out here just to turn around with no answers.

The hard way it would have to be then.

Dean took a deep breath and slowed the car down – a good idea anyhow, since they had run into a dirt track; checking to make sure the way was clear before turning to look at the Doctor, knuckles white on the wheel. He'd have to be rougher than he would like, rougher than Sam would have been, but if that's what it took –

"_Why are you here_?"

"I don't _know_," the Doctor retorted mildly –

'_Still won't look at me…_'

"Look – aren't we supposed to be checking her parts?"

"You didn't come here to check her parts," Dean countered, willing the Doctor to look at him . He was rewarded with a side-ways glance, the assessment quick before he was dismissed again.

And this was getting to be _bullshit_.

'_Fucking _look_ at me, asshole_.'

"No, I didn't," the alien responded, still calm, too calm, but he was taking more interest in the conversation, rising to the challenge in Dean's voice. When he turned to look at Dean, his eyes were hooded, thoughts hidden. "I really wasn't supposed to be here at all – something from your expression, you might not be adverse to. So why do you want me to stay, if you really didn't want me here in the first place?"

"Don't deflect," Dean shot back. "And don't make this about me."

"Ahhh, I see. So you _don't _want me here." The Doctor's smile was chilly and a tad too resigned for Dean's liking. "Look, we'll just turn around and head back then, alright? Sounds like you need to adjust her carburetor, maybe put a bit more water in her -"

"We aren't going back until you talk to me."

"You don't want me here, I didn't _plan_ on being here. So why are you trying so badly to keep me here? There is nothing to _talk _about!" Exasperated now, his hands rose to join the conversation, fingers splayed in a beseeching manner as he stared Dean down – a dare if there ever was one.

"Sure. No problem. Nothing to talk about." Dean nodded, actively looking around for a place to pull over. From the way things were going, this was going to be a rough one – he just wasn't sure anymore who it was going to be harder on. "_Right_. So if I take you back, the TARDIS is just going to let you in and you'll both take off because _obviously _you've accomplished what you set out to do here."

"I just told you! I don't _know _what I'm doing here," the Doctor protested.

"_Liar_."

"Rule Number One, Dean." The Time-Lord's voice dropped in tone, smile fading fast as he let himself be pulled into what was shaping up to be a good throw-down. "I've _always_ been open about that."

The very fact he was allowing himself to be drawn into an argument was telling, and it was starting to make Dean feel lost and uncomfortable. This was not behavior he was used to; this was not a reaction he was expecting. The Doctor was meeting confrontation with confrontation…but there was no spark, no _energy_ behind it.

"But you've never lied to _me _before," Dean replied softly, disturbed by the lack of fire in the Doctor's manner. "Or hidden things from me - and you are definitely hiding something. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I've _never_ implied that Dean Winchester," the Doctor gritted out, stung by Dean's accusation. His hands fisted in his lap and then relaxed, mouth a thin line like Dean had struck a blow he didn't expect. Two deep breaths and the Doctor steadied, his expression going blank; but his eyes were narrowed, trying to track where the conversation was headed.

"Really? You'd be the first." Dean shrugged. "You show up here, you act all weird, you say all the wrong things and you are starting to scare me."

The Doctor flinched but didn't respond, looking for all the world like he wished he had never stepped foot in the Impala – and that hurt more than Dean was willing to admit to himself. Knowing just about anything may set the alien off but having come too far to back out now, he switched tactics, going for a gentler tone.

"What's going on?" Dean questioned, his voice just a touch softer, pitched low to match the seriousness of what he was asking.. "She landed you here for a reason and She never does anything by chance - so let's have it."

"It's really not that important, Dean." The Doctor shrugged, trying to smile but failing. His tone was light, but there was something just _behind_ it… "Nothing earthshaking going on: no shape-shifters, demons, Daleks, universal apocalypses -"

"I didn't ask if it was _important_," Dean interrupted, leaning towards exasperated again, but trying his damnedest to rein himself in. Getting into an argument was not what he wanted, but it looked like the Doctor was determined to push it that far.

'Fuck_. Why do you have to be so – ? _Fuckthis.'

Dean swung the Impala over towards the meager shoulder, slamming on her brakes –_sorry, baby – _before turning to face off with the Doctor, the Time-Lord's steady stare and neutral expression just begging for Dean to hit him. Instead, Dean took a deep (_very_ _deep_) breath and tried again, working to keep himself just this side of pissed off. His resolve wavered, however, as the Doctor's eyes went blank again, his whole demeanor screaming of detachment, disconnecting from the conversation altogether.

"I didn't ask if it was important – in _your_ estimation. I just asked what was going on. I have a feeling I know what you are going to tell me and I just want you to be honest. I want you to be my _friend_ and tell me what the fuck is _happening_!"

"Dean..." Calm again – too, too calm – and Dean really wished he'd fucking _blink_.

"_Doctor_." Two could play that game.

"Turn around," The Doctor commanded softly, his voice smooth and steady, but just underneath there was a hard edge. Dean _wanted_ that edge, something he could understand and relate to.

He deliberately ignored the tone of the Time-Lord's voice, the urge to obey a direct order over-ridden by the more pressing need to dig deeper. He wanted to be angry that the Doctor had pushed that particular button, but he understood the need for control. Dean was removing control from the alien's hands – and neither of them responded well to that. When backed into a corner, one used every weapon available to fight one's way back out. He might not like the tactic, but he could get behind the idea of it.

Too bad he was in an order-bucking mood today.

"No." Simple, direct, precise.

"I said turn _around_," the Doctor barked, voice thin with something Dean almost wished he didn't have to contemplate, but the Doctor's sheer resistance told him he was hitting pay dirt.

_Steady, Dean-o – don't push him _too_ hard…_

"And I'm fucking telling you _no,_" Dean shot back, the words harsh even as he tried to keep his voice mild.

"I know what's happening in your world, your time-line right now." The Doctor's voice dropped, the rough edge of a plea bleeding through his tone – _don't do this, don't make me do this_ – and Dean had to steel himself against it. The Time-Lord's eyes were hauntingly intense, their focus like an ache across Dean's skin. "You don't...you don't need this, Dean. Trust me -"

"You're the _Doctor_," Dean filled in, the words smearing into a mocking tone, even as he wanted to scream at him, shake him into spilling what would make his eyes look so, so _old_. "Kinda making it hard to trust you at the moment, Doc."

"Oh, so it's going to be sarcasm, is it?" The Time-Lord reacted like he had been slapped, physically pulling back from Dean as his face went blank and cold again. "Turn around -"

"Fuck off. We're staying right here," Dean informed him, hands sliding off the wheel with forced nonchalance, one hand twitching towards the ignition before he thought better of it, the Chevy's steady rumble a source of strength. "You can try to walk back, but if you think I won't stoop to knocking you out, you've got another think coming."

"I'm not even going to pass comment on that statement," the Doctor hissed, and there, right there, Dean could see a peek of the On-Coming Storm: the power of a pissed-off Time-Lord a threat he felt down to the marrow of his bones. "You know better than that, Dean Winchester -"

"Doesn't mean I can't give it a try," Dean shrugged.

"Why are you _pushing_?" Exasperated again, the Doctor's hands flew up to punctuate the question. His animation was a relief, even as his resistance told Dean more than he ever wanted to know; insides heavy with all the implications behind the Doctor's cagey manner. "What does it matter to you, anyway? It's not like I'm particularly useful to you at this juncture."

"And I'm not going to dignify _that _statement," Dean replied, shocked and more than a little dismayed. "Is that what you think of me…after all this time?"

The Doctor let his hands drop, frown creeping in above his eyes.

"That's what I am to most people…yes." His honesty was a weary punch to the sternum, even with the lack of heat behind it.

"I'm not '_most people_'," Dean pointed out. His anger resurfaced when the Doctor shot him a cold half-smile, the Storm still brewing underneath the placid surfaces of the alien's eyes.

"I beg to differ there." It was said with mild implacability, but the dismissive tone of it had Dean throttling back before he could open his mouth, fury warring with common sense for a fraction of a moment.

Dean waited a beat or two, taking note of the subtle tells: the Doctor licking his lips, eyes falling closed as if his own retort had hurt him, not Dean, before seeking out the stillness beyond the window. When Dean started to speak again, the Doctor flinched in his seat, but stubbornly refused to face him, pulling away even as Dean tried to reel him in.

"I can't believe you just said that to me, after everything we've been through," Dean picked his words carefully, trying to control the urge to lash out so he wouldn't lose further ground with the alien. "And don't start that, I know you – the _you _sitting right here. We've helped each other, saved each other – at least twice from my memory -"

"Three times -"

"_Shut up_. You know damn well what I meant. And you should already know I'll have your back through anything!" Dean was starting to lose his temper, though every instinct warned him not to. He wanted the Doctor to look at him, engage him, fight back, be the _Doctor_, instead of this stranger who just happened to look like him. He was aware he was spinning uselessly without his compass, but he couldn't hold back any more. He had to make each word count, he had to _reach_ the man somehow. "You've always backed me up when I needed you. But this time, it isn't about me, is it? Hey, are you _trying _to piss me off?"

"I don't know," the Doctor said vaguely. Finally, he turned to look at Dean, the iciness in his expression only exceeded by the frost in his tone. "Does putting matters into perspective 'piss you off', Dean?"

"Does someone actually giving a shit piss _you _off?"

_Holy shit…_

Dean blinked as something flickered in the Doctor's expression, his 'back off' stance wavering for just a moment, as if Dean had startled him somehow. Winchester blew out a breath, trying to remain calm as the answer landed in his lap, startling in its simplicity. It had been staring him in the face all this time, every action or reaction from the Time-Lord now astonishingly transparent.

"_Fuck_, Sam was _right_," Dean croaked, a terrible chill shivering through his bones as he watched the Doctor scramble to shore up his defenses, ready to retreat at any given moment.

The Time-Lord's retort was dipped in acid, though his usual fire was still lacking, almost as if he was too tired to keep this dance up for much longer. It hurt a hell of a lot more than it should; it hurt worse than the words falling from his lips, the intent behind them – _stop pushing, leave me alone_ – more heartbreaking than what was actually said. Dean _knew_ this tactic, he knew it well, and he tried to prepare himself, even as each word landed like a punch.

"In what sense?" the Doctor hissed, reacting on instinct alone, lashing out to prevent Dean from thinking it through. "It is very rare you two seem to be right, nowadays."

"Stop that," Dean fired back, the urge to shake him stilled only by the sense he was treading a narrow line. Anything could topple the Time-Lord over the edge and make him shut down again. Dean had to play this _just right_.

"Stop that shit right now! What the _fuck _is your problem -"

He knew the second the words were out of his mouth he had gone too far. The Doctor's lips thinned in fury. That remoteness, that damnable distance Dean had been trying to pull him away from slammed back between them with the speed of a striking viper. He had to swallow back an apology, knowing that would only push the Doctor further away, and the Time-Lord might as well be on another continent from the way he was staring Dean down. He played his pawn, now it was time to play the game the way he had it set.

But again, the Doctor beat him to the punch, reacting before Dean could even attempt to make things right.

"I'm done with this conversation." The thinly controlled anger in the Doctor's voice thrummed under Dean's skin, his voice mellow even as his eyes flashed a warning. "It's very stimulating with all the foul language and sarcasm, but I'm _done._"

Anything else he might have said was lost as he wrenched the passenger door open, lanky frame out of the Impala before Dean could blink.

'Damn_ – forgot how fast on his feet he could be._' Was the breathless flicker of a thought, the Doctor gone before it was even complete.

The Time-Lord's shoulders were high with tension as he swiftly spun away from the car, his upper body stiff with anger, hands jammed deeply into his coat pockets as he walked away. Dean's eyes were still centered on where the Doctor had been mere seconds before, any retort dying on his lips as he watched the alien beat feet, likely heading straight back to the main road.

From there it was anyone's guess.

Dean cursed under his breath, killing the engine and palming the keys before exiting the Chevy as fast as he could without face-planting. He hoped he wouldn't have to run after him, because he could see this getting physical fast. The Doctor was pretty hardcore anti-violence, but it didn't mean he couldn't give as good as he felt he was getting…and Dean really didn't want to feel one of the alien's punches first hand if he could help it.

"The _hell _you are!" He called to the Time-Lord's retreating back, viciously satisfied when the Doctor stopped walking so fast that dust flew up from his boots – but he still hadn't turned to face him. Not yet. "You quit avoiding the topic and pushing me away! Why do you always _do _that?"

He had leaned up over the roof, tangling his hands together so hard his knuckles ached, trying to keep himself from following the Doctor, keep himself stilled, prepared. The Time-Lord didn't disappoint, spinning gracefully on one heel to march back to the car, jaw set as his eyes flicked over Dean's stance. His fury made him more alien than ever, and twice as frightening as Dean had ever imagined. He had witnessed the Doctor's anger first-hand, but never directed at himself.

"And why do _you _always have to _push," _The Doctor seethed, drawn up to his full height (which wasn't unimpressive from where Dean stood), Stetson throwing shadows behind his eyes as he studied Dean over the top of the Chevy. He was close enough for Dean to feel the arctic blast of his expression, but far enough away that he could still run. "Stupid – _blimey_, you primates think you have all the answers, don't you? How is telling you _anything _going to help? What, _exactly_, are you going to be able to do, Dean Winchester?"

He looked as close to actually crying as Dean had ever seen him. He also looked ready to snap – the strain around his mouth giving him that ancient look that Dean hated with all the ferocity of a burning sun. He looked so _young_ in so many ways. Dean knew that was an illusion, he knew the Doctor had more years at his back than he could possibly comprehend (even with his knowledge of angels and how old they were/could be), but his eyes generally bled a warmth that made his perceived youth more of a reality than his actual years.

At times like this, though…

'_Keep it calm, Dean, you played your cards – time to up the ante_.'

"With what?" A mild retort, but it shivered that horrible look out of the Doctor's face, so Dean felt he could chalk that up as a win.

"Quit being obtuse," the Time-Lord sneered, voice weary even as he rejoined the dance. "It isn't cute and it doesn't suit you."

"So, Sam _was _right," Dean pressed, letting his eyes drift away from the Doctor's and back again.

_Keep it casual… _

"You were brought here because something is going to happen." Dean started calmly.

"_Nothing_ is going to _happen,_" a quick hiss under his breath, but his denial was falling flat.

"You are going to die," Dean continued, heart squeezing when the Doctor tucked his chin to his chest, eyes slamming shut with a wince as if Dean had shouted it at him. "And you weren't going to tell me…"

He didn't know why he didn't see it coming. Dean knew, _knew_ this whole time as he pushed and pulled at the man. Everything the Doctor didn't want to say was forced out of him in horrible, bloody chunks; and whatever he wouldn't _admit_ to, what he didn't dare voice, was being pulled out of thin air and waved about like a goddamned flag. Dean was helpless to stop himself from pushing, just as the Doctor was helpless in his own need to defuse, deflect…and retaliate when poked. He was a wounded bear, and Dean was holding the shotgun, so he should have expected it when the Doctor backed up two paces in the conversation and let fly.

"_Yes_!" His voice crackled with that previous unnamable emotion, like actually acknowledging the truth had hurt him somehow. He rallied back with venom, but the fight that Dean expected was still lacking from his voice, leaving Winchester feeling raw and vaguely unsure of his footing. "And how could you prevent it, _hmm_? Tell me - you're racking up a great amount of wins, aren't you, Dean? How's Castiel?"

Dean almost staggered but caught himself in time The twitch of the Time-Lord's lips into a knowing smirk pushed him to react before thinking. He had been played – and quite well – but he wasn't to know that until his mouth opened, and unfiltered words spilled out before he could stop them.

"You _bastard_ - that's not fair!"

"Nothing is fair, you...you _child, _" the Doctor rasped, looking almost viciously thrilled at Dean's outburst , deflecting the main topic with more insults – designed to throw Dean off more than anything else. "And you of all people should know this. What is it going to take to get that through your thick, ape skull? Now get in the bloody car, turn her back around and get me to my bloody _ship_ and you'll never have to deal with me being 'unfair' to you again."

They glared at each other over the Impala's roof, her reflective shine distorting their faces in the early evening sun, casting shadows where none should be. Dean felt the familiar pull of melancholy and took a mental step back, deliberately softening his voice – the surreality of this moment versus the ordinariness of the day making it impossible to wrap his head around the facts as he now knew them. The Doctor was going to die. He didn't seem inclined to do a damn thing about it and while he was perfectly willing to fight Dean over it, he didn't seem too moved to do the same for himself.

_Take it down a notch, but stick with the hard questions, Winchester..._

"So that's it. You're just gonna die and you aren't going to _do _anything about it?"

It came out harsher, more accusing than he intended, but the Doctor seemed to shrug off his tone with a raised eyebrow, his expression more flabbergasted than angry. But that coldness still stretched between them, making it hard to navigate the argument. He couldn't get to the _Doctor_ inside the stranger he was looking at.

To his credit, the Doctor didn't blink or look away, but Dean drew no comfort from that. His behavior was just too bizarre to set a standard by, leaving Dean feeling around for gaps that let him see the Time-Lord for who he was, the man that Dean knew. There were too many masks and Dean just felt helpless to keep up; never mind he'd never had to do that before. The melancholy tugged at him again and he tried to breathe through it, prepare for the Doctor's next volley.

'_Ball's in your court, Doc..._'

"You think...you think I haven't _tried_?" The Doctor's mouth curled slightly, his expression incredulous – which Dean estimated was better than angry, but not by much. "You think I haven't attempted to find a way around this?"

"No." Dean sighed, the honesty heavier than he thought it would be. "No, I don't."

"And how would _you _know?" The Doctor tried to inject some of the venom he had spat at him earlier, but it fell flat, sounding more sorrowful than angry; even his sarcasm faltered along with his tone. "Since you seem to be chock full of brilliant observations and genius answers today - how. would. you. _know_?"

"Because I know _you._" Dean retorted calmly.

"Obviously, you _don't_."

"And I know you are scared and trying to make things easier on me by pushing me to the point where I won't wanna see your face again." Dean ignored the scathing jibe for what it was and cut right to the heart of the matter. "You are cutting all ties, you are going to walk right into it because you know already that a) it's going to happen, and b) if it doesn't, we all what? Go 'kablooey'? Tell me if I'm missing the mark here."

There was a moment of silence, the Doctor visibly trying to collect himself as Dean's words arrowed home. The Time-Lord shook his head in mute denial, his face pale, eyes shut, locking himself away from Dean's gentle watchfulness. His frank statements seemed to hit a lot harder than the Doctor had shored himself up for. It hurt, watching him try to pull himself together – a man Dean had always known to be prepared for anything, left shaken by the side of the road by a few well thought-out sentences. The Doctor seemed to come to a decision, and avoidance (again) seemed to be the driving force.

"Dean, I –" He took a deep breath, licking his lips and tried again, his eyes carefully neutral, giving nothing away. "For the last time…get in the car, start the bloody thing and take me back to my TARDIS."

Dean blinked placidly at him, refusing to move an inch, hands folded over one another, every muscle tense as he braced for an unknowable reaction.

The Doctor's features waffled between disbelief and fury, unable to find an emotion to settle into. He looked just as lost as Dean felt, but he couldn't allow himself to feel pity for him. The truth hurt, the truth _stunk_ more often than not – and to be hammered with it and know the other person could see right through you…

"Didn't you hear me?" The Time-Lord hissed, voice thick with turmoil. "Get. in. the. fucking. _car_! Turn this blasted vehicle around _now_!"

Dean blinked again: the rare touch of foul language showing the Doctor's hand, even as Dean felt half-goaded into compliance by it. It was a ruse, he knew, just one more tactic to avoid having a conversation the Time-Lord wasn't prepared for.

Dean let his mouth twitch slightly into a humorless smile, relaxing into the Chevy's roof as though he intended to take root there. Every tell, every gesture sent a resounding 'no' without him having to say a word to back that up. Instead, he leaned towards the Doctor, pleased when the alien held his ground – even as he wished he'd just give a little, just this once...

"Huh. I must be doing well, since I'm hitting sore points already," Dean remarked drolly. "That usually takes me awhile."

"No, it doesn't -"

"Shut up," Dean returned smoothly. "It's not working, Doctor -"

"This conversation is _pointless_." The Doctor spun on his heel, pushing himself away from the Impala with a little more force than necessary as he set to pacing, hands fluttering like startled birds as he spoke. "I did not come out here to-to be _interrogated _by a _child_! I will not have my decisions questioned and picked apart by the likes of _you _-"

"And who would you, exactly, want to question your decisions?" Dean asked, keeping his tone light, even as his words were edge with ice. "'_Ohh, I'm the Doctor - no one can surpass my knowledge and vast intelligence, and I'm always right!_', yeah? So, is it wrong when someone who cares about you, who considers you part of his stupid primate _family _questions why you are committing suicide?"


	4. Chapter 4

**~Take Away My Self Destruction~**

The Doctor froze mid-step, a small puff of dust grinding up from his boot, profile rigid with shock.

Dean breathed through the stillness, startled that he had dared to say it out loud.

_Call a spade a spade..._

His own experiences, his _own_ suicide for what he deemed the greater good, looming over them both like a grizzled crow. The shadowed coldness of it seeped through the sleepy heat of the day and dashed reality over the both of them, leaving them drowning with the horrible truth that lurked underneath.

"It is _not_," the Time-Lord whispered, the hum of his voice tilting across the Impala's roof, even as he bled his words to the ground at his feet. "You...you wouldn't -"

"Understand, right?" Dean asked quietly. "I...wouldn't _understand _-"

"No, you wouldn't!" The alien tried to rally, but seemed to choke on any potential anger, his tone more pleading than cutting. "This isn't just about _Sam_, this isn't even just about you and your fight! This is about the potential existence of _thousands _of worlds, _thousands _of societies! I-I _have _to do this! It doesn't make it easier when you have...have -"

"_Friends_?" Dean interjected, keeping it soft. The Doctor rocked on the edge of something even more horrible than his own death, and the alien's bewildering scatter of emotions was almost too much when combined with his lack of fight. "People who love you?"

"No one _loves _me," the Doctor protested, seeming almost horrified by the idea. "No-no one _should_. I am far older…I have _long_ outlived my own time."

Something pulled painfully in Dean's chest at the Doctor's unwavering certainty, his belief in what he had voiced. The idea that someone might care even a little seeming to leave the Time-Lord shocked and drifting, and the sheer _loneliness_ that implied…

"Your regenerations say otherwise." It was the only thing he could say without cracking or screaming in wordless dismay.

"I have destroyed _whole worlds_ and brought genocide to my own _race,_" the Doctor hissed, his voice raw, singed as he tried to make his death justifiable in Dean's eyes. "I think it's about time, don't you?"

"I know you've _saved _whole worlds," Dean shot back, lips numb at how quickly this was spinning beyond his control. The Doctor already determined, already well set on this path. "And saved your own race several times. I know you've saved people that wouldn't have made it otherwise -"

"You know _nothing_! You –" The Doctor rasped, voice hoarse as he tried to get himself back under wraps, turning so his back was to the Impala, shoulders tight as he fought for breath.

Dean found himself breathing with him, eyes stinging as he gave himself the opportunity to feel what had been said. His mind still staggered with the facts in front of him: the Doctor was going to die…and he seemed reluctant to stop it – hell, he seemed to be running head-long _into_ it, which was recklessness of a whole different caliber.

_Or was it?_

/You know nothing/

Ohh, how that still gutted...even after all this time.

Silence sat thick between them, the both of them taking a moment to get their emotions back in order, because that was what they did. Not generally with each _other; _but the Doctor was setting a whole new standard with his strange behavior. It left Dean feeling like an outsider, like a mere acquaintance instead of a close friend…it wasn't a feeling he particularly liked.

Winchester shook his head, something inside his chest cracking, scraped raw by familiarity of all of this: how little the Doctor seemed to care for his own life. He didn't know what had happened with the Ponds, he didn't know what the Doctor had faced recently – but whatever it was, it had worn the Time-Lord down. The man who believed in the utter sanctity of life in all its forms, the man who fought with weapons in the shape of words, who could disarm with a smile and well-timed patter…

And his horror at the idea of someone out there, _anyone_ actually _giving_ a fuck –

It makes it harder, walking to your death knowing you left someone behind. Dean had done it several times, and he didn't always have a backup plan, a way out. The Doctor always did – _always – _he was famous for it…except for _this_ Doctor. Dean could almost entertain the idea that 'this Doctor' could have easily jettisoned the relationships around him anticipating what was coming, but he dismissed it just as quickly. He'd only spent short amounts of time with the man and _he_ couldn't be shaken like that. So odds were (with the type of Companions the Time-Lord was known to pick), he couldn't convince anyone to 'just let him go'.

Which meant he had forced them to do it.

Equally, this resistance at the idea of friends, people he could lean on, sent chills down Dean's spine. It spoke volumes, how easily the Time-Lord dismissed those who cared for him. And it stacked the idea of 'reckless suicide', over plain 'death' distinctly higher. He didn't want to know what could push the Doctor – _the_ _Doctor_ – to this point, what terrors and half-truths could bring him unquestioning to the brink, and leave him staring alone into the abyss with no one to care…and with such a dead certainty that no one would.

"You say I know nothing…but I know enough," Dean ventured, his voice stronger, _steadier_ than he thought it would be. "I know you've saved this world so many times we could probably write a book filled with just the numbers and it would put your average yellow-pages to shame. I know you've saved Dad - you've saved Sam and me at least _twice _now_, _by my reckoning. Is it so much to ask you to save yourself?"

The answering silence shivered with the unknown, the Doctor's stillness more telling than mere words ever could be. And the horrors it spoke of left Dean dry-mouthed with sorrow. Castiel taught him friendship and how wrenching it could be when it was taken away from you so _suddenly_, without the slightest hint of warning. The Doctor was teaching him that he had no control over such things, and that any control you thought you _did_ have was an illusion.

_Like an old man with a youthful face. _

But it didn't mean he had any right to give up. Free Will meant you had to _try_, even when Fate laid the cards. Fate was a greedy, grasping bitch, but Dean Winchester had one up on Her by being a stubborn asshole.

"Tell me what to do here, Doc." Quiet, but pressing, forcing the Time-Lord to respond.

When he finally did, he wasn't as animated as Dean wished. It seemed all that pushing had shattered what confidence the Doctor had in his own lies, leaving him _thinner_ somehow.

"Stop _calling _me that," the alien rumbled, but it was all bluster with no heat behind it. His back was still turned and it left nothing for Dean to get a read off of. "And there is nothing that _can _be done."

As another tick of silence followed, the Doctor turned to stare out over a patchy field on the other side of the road. The distant call of birds and the stillness of the untraveled road they were parked alongside of seemed to sum up the desolation of the whole conversation. So much had been said but nothing had been given way to, leaving them in a stalemate that could span Time itself.

"Nothing can be done," the Doctor continued at last. Turning back to the Impala, his fingers brushed over the chrome of her passenger window, reverent and lonely, but gaze never met Dean's once. A frown settled deep in the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes, weary bitterness leaking through his words. "Least of all by you."

Dean breathed through the direct barb, knowing it to be the last ditch effort of a man drowning with no rope to anchor him. Somehow, Dean had become the weight around the Doctor's neck, lost in a sea of no possibilities.

If only it didn't _hurt_ so much.

"Now, if you are done," – _hurting me, toying with me, questioning me_ – "we can forget this whole useless conversation, get in the car, turn her around and I'll be gone like I never was. That's…_usually_ how you prefer it, right?"

Dean didn't answer, suppressing a flinch, the accuracy of the statement making it more cutting than it should have been. He was too tired to be angry, though, fear and sorrow settling heavy over his shoulders, weighing him down with too many regrets.

_No time, never enough _time_…_

But the Doctor was speaking, determined to drive home how futile the last half hour had been, trying his damnedest to make what friendship they had more acquaintance than a bond. Dean had been through too much with this man to ever let happen, and they both knew it. It wouldn't have worked if the tables had been turned, if _Dean_ was the one to push this point. They had already done this dance once, and not that long ago; the ploy had _almost_ worked then (_almost_), so there was no way in hell it was going to fly now.

But obviously not for the lack of trying on the Time-Lord's part.

"Quit beating your head against a wall over this," the Doctor said sharply, the edged tone of his words releasing Dean from the responsibility of caring. "There's no sense in…_p__ointless_ this whole _thing –_" then a muttered, "can't _believe _She brought me here."

"_Why_?" Dean interrupted, the sudden need to know outweighing everything else. The urge to have this all make sense over-rode the quiet pull to give in, to fold his hand and let the Doctor have his way, leave this whole day in the dirt at their feet, and let the Chevy spirit them away from the pain that saturated the very air they breathed.

"Why _what_?" Was the irritable response.

"Why do you have to die?" Because that was the only question in the end. Suicide or no – Fate be damned – there had to be a driving force, a reason for the Time-Lord's headlong rush into oblivion. He was too selfish (in many ways) to just let go, no matter how bad things got. There could only be one or two answers; neither would make his death any easier to take, but it would make that death a little less senseless…a little more comfortable to breathe through.

_Why?_

The question hung in the air like it was pinned there – such a simple thing, but with so much behind it. The Doctor blinked slowly, the carefully crafted blankness he carried around with him like a two-edged weapon smoothing his features, like he had never considered the _idea_, much less the inevitable outcome. He licked his lips, meeting Dean's gaze as he weighed how to answer him, before settling on his fallback method of avoidance.

"What does it _matter_? It is my time, that should be good enough." The Doctor's shoulders rose and fell once, an aborted shrug that said there was more to the story than he was ready to tell; even (maybe _especially_) with all it took to get them to this point. "That's all the _'why' _that is needed."

"What happens if you _don't_?"

Everything stilled – even the call of the birds was absent, like the universe had shuddered under the blasphemy of Dean's suggestion. The Doctor stared at him, the curled brim of the Stetson throwing shadows and blocking any expression that might have shone from the Doctor's face; Dean didn't know whether he was grateful or infuriated at that.

"I-I can't even..." – _contemplate that_ – "this is not a question you want to ask, Dean. This...my death is a _fixed point_." The certainty, the urgency in the alien's voice was like a dash of cold water; it pled for Dean's comprehension even as he shied away from the question. His hands rose to emphasize his words, fingers crooked to ward Dean's protests away, palms out to drive his own protest home.

"Time can be rewritten." He said it quickly, using the Doctor's own revelations against him.

"No." An almost frantic shake of the head, denial and resistance all at once. "Not this - not _this _time -"

"Why not?" Dean asked mulishly.

_When it is needed _most_ – what makes this less _important_?_

"I can only reboot the universe so many times, Dean." A humorless smile that melted as quickly as it had started, acknowledging the absence of anything funny about their exchange. "And...I'm tired. I'm _old_. You lot can do this yourselves - you've more than proven that. You don't...you don't _need _me anymore."

_The hell we _don't_..._

"Whatever happened to 'stupid apes'?" Dean hedged, not able to just let it go, even as his own will to fight about it lagged in the face of the Doctor's refusal to budge.

The Doctor placed his palms flat on the edge of the Impala's roof, chin to his chest as he blew out a noisy exhalation, shaking off his previous statement. Though Dean didn't miss the brief lift to the corner of his mouth, the quirk of his lips at Winchester's retort another deflection of a kind, more self-depreciating than actual humor.

"Stop that – you know I didn't..." He bobbed his head and shrugged, a stiff tilt to his shoulders, pausing for another steadying breath, refusing to get drawn in all over again. The mention of his previous, callous statements only made him retreat further into himself. "Just...get me back to Sexy."

Dean sighed as the Time-Lord popped open the passenger door with a groaning creak, one foot already inside even as Dean spoke up, trying to stop him from fully retreating and dismissing what had gone down between them with little more than a shrug and a wave from his hand. This had to have been important. It _was_ important. It couldn't just be left to a dirt road in the middle of bumfuck nowhere to drift away, with no point or purpose behind it all.

_How can such an intelligent being be so fucking _stupid_?_

This was about more than their friendship. This was bigger than them, but Dean didn't want what they had to linger and die here like this, either. He didn't want the whole of his time with the Doctor balled up and thrown away like so much garbage; he _knew_ the Doctor cared for him –

_Why else would he do something so goddamned crazy?_

But he needed him to give a fuck about himself, too. Otherwise the whole of their experiences together meant nothing.

Dean needed him to be the _Doctor_.

"Doctor." Just one single word, uttered to make him stop. To make him just _listen_.

"_Please_...Dean," the Time-Lord croaked, unable to even look him in the face, lips pulled tight in an unhappy grimace as he sagged against the door. The response was anything but what he expected. The man who had (practically by himself) defeated a horde of demons on his last legs with little more than a car, a sonic screwdriver, endless hope and enthusiasm sounded so _wretched_, so close to defeat, it physically staggered Dean. The low plea to be left alone, for Dean to just stand down and let it _go_ bleeding from his voice, the slump of his shoulders like an open wound. "I-I'll beg, is that what you want?"

Dean recoiled mentally, unable to even _imagine_.

"_Jesus_, Doc, no -"

"I have...I _have _to _do _this." His tone brooked no arguments – no mercies asked or given. "There is no _choice_. The reasoning doesn't matter. It just _is._"

Dean bit down fiercely on his lower lip, the ache of his teeth against the tender flesh grounding him, stopping him from striding to the other side of the car and hitting the Doctor until he felt better. He wanted to hit him until that damnable look of walking death in his eyes faded, leaving nothing but the Storm that existed under the Doctor's gentle nature. He was more than willing to face that Storm if it meant the Doctor would even attempt to fight back.

This dance was exhausting, but he wasn't going to give up and let the Dark win. He had never let the Dark win before and he damn sure knew the Doctor had never let it take him down, either. If their places were reversed, the Doctor wouldn't stop, wouldn't quit until he had beat back the Dark. Dean just needed to know one thing...

"I just want to – what happened to you?"

He kept it gentle, letting no accusations peek through, just a genuine need that stilled the Doctor midway to the passenger seat, unable to resist a plea even as he raced to the end. It gave Dean a glimmer of hope, seeing that. It was a low way to get him to listen, but you did what you had to when you were fighting for a friend's life, when you fought for family.

_/'Any weapon in the arsenal; the softest voice can hit the hardest. __All love is a double-edged sword; but sometimes it was the only one worth wielding.'/_

_'He said that to me once...' – _then_ – _ '_He's still in there._'

But Dean didn't know if that thought was hopeful or tragic, considering where the Time-Lord was eventually headed.

"You used to fight, to _question_...what happened to that?" Dean held his hands out, fingers spread as if conceding a point. His voice was rough as he tried to keep his own emotions dialed down and softened at the edges. "Please. We'll go, just - tell me why you've given up."

"I _haven't._" It was another protest, but there was just enough life behind it to give Dean hope. He needed to know the Doctor still had it in him to fight, even if he was still frozen between retreat and advance, stance wavering, _bending_.

Dean's foot was in the door, all he had to do was approach _just_ _right_.

"You _have_," he blurted, before he could catch himself. Then he took a breath, working to even out his tone, and continued to inquire instead of accuse. "You _are. _Doctor –"

"I failed."

All the air in Dean's throat evaporated, ice slipping across his skin from the flat finality of the Doctor's statement – those two individual words the equivalent of a verbal neutron bomb. He almost wished the Time-Lord hadn't picked that moment to look up, the Impala a welcome wall between them, a shield from the utter devastation in the alien's gaze. He didn't look just old or even _ancient_; he looked as if the weary troop of his years had fallen on him, the weight of them crushing all life from his bones, crippling him beneath them.

He looked like a man that had already died –

_days, months, _years_ ago_

But just wasn't smart enough to lay down and stop _breathing_.

Dean wanted him to shut up.

He wanted to rewind back the last two hours and wake up beside his tools and his baby, a day of solid work behind him with nothing more than a cold beer and a bellyful of stew to look forward to. He didn't want to hear this, even though it was what he had been pushing for.

Even though the Doctor needed to say it, have it out in the open – to make it _real,_ if nothing else – Dean still didn't want to hear it.

The Doctor looked at Dean with those calm, dead eyes and the words tumbled from his lips – his tone as serene and guileless as if he was remarking on the weather. Lingering traces of self-loathing, familiarand_ painful, _were etched in the shapes of his speech, drawing thicker and tighter with each word that passed through his lips.

"For the final time, just when it counted _most_…I failed."

The silence ticked between them as he let Dean absorb the implications of what he was saying, let it run across the stretch of nerves just under Dean's skin, nestle below his sternum and dig and dig and dig –

"If it was just me," the Doctor paused, face tilting to the sky, blinking rapidly. His features were as cold and blank as fresh snow, the words seeming to never touching their creator, even as they ripped him bloody from the inside out. "If..if it was just _me_, it wouldn't be so bad. But I have been arrogant, _blind_...outmatched by the _simplest_ –"

He fell quiet, eyes closing as if he could unsee what he had done. Dean couldn't breathe, couldn't even _blink_ as the Time-Lord came apart before his eyes, unable to even say if the Doctor was actually aware of him standing there as the alien faced what had brought him to this point.

It could have been the first time, it could have been the hundredth time – pain like this didn't ebb away with time. It disabled and disarmed, It left you crumbling underneath the fading afternoon sky on a deserted stretch of road with nothing but the blood pumping in your veins, and the oxygen in your lungs to keep you this side of surviving. Leaving only the will to either fix it at all costs or end it if there was no other answer.

Dean had been there twice, maybe three times in his very short life Topside and countless times more Below. The Doctor's pain was so thick he could taste it: a weary copper bluntness that slicked down the back of your throat, clenching into an ache that couldn't be reached, sitting just below your bones where no sunlight could soothe it, no forgiveness could ease it. He had been swept with this very kind of pain when he first officially met the Doctor, his nightmares just the tip of the iceberg – and the Doctor had eased it somehow.

He had let Dean rail at him (even as sick as he, himself, had been), listened to his silence and helped him sleep dreamlessly. The pain had never been truly conquered, it probably never would be – but between the Doctor, Sam (as fucked as he was at the time), Bobby and Castiel, it had been made manageable. He could face it and so much _more_ now due to the madman in a box. He fell from the sky and saved Dean when he needed to be rescued from the Hell he had brought back with him...

The least he could do was try to listen, maybe even save the Doctor from his own Hell.

Dean owed him that much.

He eased the driver's side door open, the rusty screech of it shaking the Doctor from his mental loop. The Time-Lord looked winded, dazed as he fell back to the here and now. Dean took mercy on him, knowing the Doctor needed to get back under control. He averted his gaze from the stricken desolation in the man's eyes, letting him gather his dignity back around himself, knowing all too well how much one needed that when brought to one's metaphorical knees.

Dean worried that he had gone too far. Whatever the Doctor thought he had done, whatever wrong he believed he had committed was paralyzing enough face; coupled with humiliation (real or imagined), the man may very well break. Dean couldn't tell if he had pushed too hard or just as far as was needed; either way he had to show he was there to help pick up the pieces...not make it worse.

Not only did the Doctor need some space, Dean some, too. His hands shook wildly as he settled on the leather seat, heart thudding as if he had just run a marathon. The stretch of his skin as he white-knuckled the wheel felt numb and icy, but the Chevy's interior a warm balm to his jittering nerves.

Watching the unshakeable Doctor vibrate apart before his eyes was like watching Sam do a slow slide into the hands of evil. It was unthinkable, _terrifying_.

Dean willed his body, his hands to calm, trying to wrap himself in the solidness of everything he knew as home. The Doctor needed him to listen, just this once, so he forced himself to breathe slowly and focus. He was all too aware that the Doctor would be seated next to him again within moments, and he needed his _friend_, he needed someone who would keep him held in high regard, not kick him when he was down. It seemed the Doctor didn't have many of those kinds of friends left...if he had any left at all.

Dean's heart ached, every muscle in his body strained beyond exhaustion – so he could well imagine how the Doctor felt about now. Guilt and anger were like acid: they ate at you until there was nothing left and what they _did_ leave behind…

He swallowed thickly, keeping his gaze averted when the Doctor finally folded himself into the Impala. Barely a minute had passed since the alien had spilled a glimpse into the horrors he held close, but it felt like hours, the seconds falling away (_beneath), _so slowly Dean could feel each one as it brushed past.

Silence asserted itself, fragile and heavy between them, as the Time-Lord considered what he should say, just how much of his pain he should give away. The motives were selfish from one view, sacrificial from another Dean knew all too well the instinctive reaction to keep loved ones wrapped tight, unwilling to burden them with your sorrows. He kept his eyes on his lap, letting his hands slide off the steering wheel to lie limply on his thighs, keeping himself open if the Doctor needed it, yet reserved so he wouldn't feel further overwhelmed.

He was seconds away from deciding for him - from digging the keys out of his pocket to start the Chevy back to rumbling life, mercy granted in the hum of her engines – when the Doctor finally spoke; his words a tired whisper of sound, like he had been over them again and again (_maybe he has),_ their creases worn down and faded like soft cloth. The Doctor's voice was a soothing, steady hum against Dean's ears, even when filled with such pervasive sorrow.

"If it was just _me_…" The chuckle that escaped him was more like a sob than the laugh (Dean was sure), he'd intended it to be. But he seemed more settled, stronger than he had been minutes before. Dean didn't know whether to be proud or horrified. "I devastated them...the Ponds? They're safe, _now_, but they'll never be..." The Doctor's fingers twisted and clawed against one another, the turmoil in the Time-Lord's heart playing out in the dance of his hands; hands that had hauled Dean to safety, punctuated statements and soothed away hurts. They'd never been used to _emphasize_ hurt. "They won't be _Amy_ and _Rory_ anymore. When she called me back from the Void, I-I broke them all over again...I –"

Dean remained silent, letting him spin it out. He tried to resist the urge to interrupt, biting down on his tongue until it bled, the taste the only thing that could make sense of the pain spilling across the cabin. The Doctor took a deep breath and another, forcing his hands to still. It was somehow worse, that stillness, seeming to say everything he couldn't.

"I've done...a lot of damage in my time," the Time-Lord rasped. "So, so _much_ – and this time...it's fitting, it really is. This time...this time I blundered so badly I created my _own death_. I destroyed three innocent lives because I couldn't just…"

_Leave it well enough alone._

_Put my curiosity, my vanity aside._

_Stop being so _lonely_._

Dean heard every thought as if they had been spoken aloud, and wondered if Amy and Rory saw it the same as the Doctor did: if Amy still felt a sense of pride, saving her best friend from the Void; if Rory even knew that (somehow) the Doctor had set Amy in his path, found them the true and deep love they weren't meant to have otherwise.

Because he _did_ things like that.

The Ponds' destinies were so entwined with the Doctor's, if he had been forever removed...there would always be something _missing_. A longing that couldn't be touched. It might have eventually driven them apart, this nameless feeling that had no definition because it didn't _exist_.

Yes, the Doctor could be reckless, stupid, thoughtless, immature, destructive and dismissive. But he could also be kind, warm, enthusiastic, hopeful, wondrous, sweet and so damned smart it was fucking _frightening_. All these things combined made him _more_: more human than most people Dean knew, more relatable and his flaws made him more _real_.

He probably had done a lot of damage. The Doctor might not be wrong there, but Dean was sure he had done less than most beings with a shorter life span. His mistakes and missteps were spread out over a longer span of time, almost a millennia. And yet, he was still _worried_ worried over it…

But Dean kept still, kept quiet. He let the Doctor talk, tell it as he saw it.

He was a talker, that was for sure; everything a funny quip, anecdote or lecture to be pulled out at the drop of a hat, his tongue slick, silver-edged and razor sharp.

That was, until it came to how he saw _himself_. Then it was all razor underneath: biting, bleeding cuts that seeped slow and stubborn, every word pushed out like it had been carved out of him. The deeper the slice, the faster the bleed; any possible hatreds and negatives reserved to be weighed against his own soul (his soul coming out lacking more often than not).

Dean knew that. He understood it. So he let him talk, let him get the worst of the poison out, just praying he had the tools needed to tend to the Doctor's wounds.

"I couldn't leave it alone...leave _them_ alone. And it cost them more than it could ever cost me," the Doctor continued breathlessly, eyes closed to shield Dean from the worst of his torment, his voice gaining strength as he talked it through. But Dean had his doubts that the situation being laid out hurt the Time-Lord any less than it hurt the Ponds...eventually their pain would end – but _his_? Who knew how long he carried his?

"It cost them _everything_ – one day, it will take their life. But I can _stop_ that, I can stop from breaking their world and this universe. And it is past time for me to quit acting foolish and running from what's in front of me." He finally found enough bravery to look Dean in the eyes, the horror in his voice almost physical, the endless span of his years barely contained within him. "I-I can'teven _begin_ to...I broke Amy's faith in me, Dean. Her _faith_. I tore it to shreds right in front of her, made her see the fallacy behind it. But that wasn't the worst of it, the hits just never stop coming for them – Doctor Song, _River_ - River is the Weapon."

Dean swallowed hard, weakly grasping what he was getting at, but somehow missing the mark. River always seemed to be important, just _there_, but –

"Their child, Dean. The baby the Silence took, the one I could never save, the one I could never talk about. They took Amy and Rory's baby girl, their _daughter_, and twisted her into the ultimate weapon...to use against _me_. " Practically gasping around it, the rumble of his voice becoming faded, wearier by the second. The weight of his confession left every word shot through with double meaning, heavy with all the things that weren't said.

"They just - they took her away from them and I couldn't even set _those_ timelines right. Because I couldn't just leave them _be_. I couldn't just disappear as I was meant to and just leave them _alone_." The Doctor practically hummed in pain, upper body tilting towards his knees as if he could capture it, hold it close. "I...I destroyed them _all_. River was driven completely, utterly mad. I don't even want to _know_ what Amy...Rory couldn't even look me in the _face _after everything and I really can't –"

He shuddered to a stop, looking disgusted with himself, gaze falling to his lap and his motionless hands like they had betrayed him somehow. His sorrow and horror over the Ponds, almost eclipsed by his insidious self-loathing, something he would normally tuck away, until those moments when he could be alone, just him and his thoughts. He looked too weary, embarrassed and old to be very moved by what Dean thought; though Winchester could almost see him pull his armor in close, prepared for Dean's anger, any horror or disgust justifiable in his eyes.

But all Dean could feel was a terrible, soul-deep pity.

For the Ponds, for River – and for the Doctor.

The Doctor who had laid himself open, laid himself bare for Dean to see; something that Dean thought probably hadn't happened in _centuries_, if ever. The idea of it staggered and awed Dean, even as it left him more sorrowful than angry. They were both proud people, they knew what it took to speak like this, how vulnerable it made you.

And they knew how you _craved_ it, needing your hatred for yourself shored up – justified by those closest to you and sometimes...sometimes you _got_ it.

'_He won't get that from me, though – he has to know that. He has to._'

"I'm sorry," the Doctor blurted, sounding more tired than ever and twice as humiliated. "I shouldn't have – I'm sorry. Can we just…can we just –"

_Go now? Forget this happened?_

Dean swallowed hard, hearing everything that wasn't said, everything neither of them _could_ say. Pain like this wasn't just worked through, you didn't just _live_ with it. You either drowned in it, or dragged it behind you like a weight.

What could he _possibly_ say to make it easier? What could possibly make any of this _better_?

It stunned him to realize that the Doctor's earlier statement was true. There was nothing Dean could do. The only thing this argument had accomplished was dragging the Doctor's pain into the light; forcing him to face it. Dean was realizing that that was likely all he _had_ been doing…over, and over, and –

"_Fuck_. Doctor," he didn't mean to sound so raw, so shocked. The slight ripple of movement over the Doctor's shoulders told him he should have stayed quiet, that his silence was more of a balm than the bullets of his words.

'_That's not what I meant. You know I don't mean –_'

"No." It was said quietly, that smooth, unruffled calm falling back into the cadence of his speech. Though it made Dean furious (at himself, at the man next to him), he also understood how the Doctor needed his armor, his neutrality. "Just...take me back to the TARDIS - please, Dean. There is no point in arguing this, it just _is_."

Letting his aching eyes go unfocused for a moment, Dean licked his lips. His mouth was dry with all the things he could say but couldn't find the right words for. He just let the Doctor's plea fall between them, let the silence fill the empty spaces. For a moment his own bones seemed too heavy, the feel of them a pressure under his skin that he could never escape from.


	5. Chapter 5

**~Where I Go, I Just Don't Know~**

He finally risked a glance at the alien, something inside his chest rebelling at the way he was so gray and small in the passenger seat – his confession having shrunk him into ordinary – and everything in Dean hated that. The Time-Lord was anything but ordinary, he was anything but faded and miniscule.

The words finally found him and he wondered how he couldn't have grasped them before. They were perfect in their honest simplicity: something he could say easily without breaking either of them, something that he would listen to if they were said to him.

"You can't make me stop caring about you, Doctor." He made himself mirror the Doctor's calm: hands still, breathing even, letting the thoughts fill the gray corners of his mind. Dean was half-grateful he didn't stop to rethink what he would say. The truths rolled off of his tongue like they had just been waiting for his jaws to unlock. "You can't make me stop wanting to help you."

"I know. I wish I could," the Doctor started to say, then shook his head, echo of his familiar half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it never reached his eyes. "Never mind. You can't help me, Dean, not this time. But thank you. I've always –"

"Don't. Doctor, " Dean licked his lips, trying to keep the plea out of his voice, trying to keep his tone calm and steady, knowing just how important it could be, now more than ever. "Just promise me something."

"If I can." The Time-Lord's voice was hesitant, but he sounded willing to play along for the moment. "There are some things -"

"I know. Trust me, I know." Dean nodded, sneaking another glance at the Doctor, hoping he said this just right – hoping that somehow, he could make him listen.

He felt a flicker of hope when the Doctor looked back steadily, the alien's need to make _Dean_ feel better over-riding anything he might feel. It was another deflection, another line of defense, but once again, this was something Dean could understand (even if he couldn't fully get behind it). As long as the man listened, Dean would consider damn near anything a win.

"Just – before it happens," Dean paused, letting his eyes drift away for a fraction of a second, the Time-Lord's gaze once more a heavy (but familiar) weight across his skin. "Get some answers, yeah?"

The Doctor's brow furrowed as if he was confused, though his half-smile never wavered. His eyes still sad, still too _old_ for Dean's liking, but there was something else behind them, something that eased the tension in Dean's shoulders and uncoiled the tightness in his chest just a little. It was the look of awe and pleasure the Time-Lord would sometimes get at those odd, close moments – that spark that made you want to laugh a little, to have him look like that again and again and again. The look that said you had done something spectacular.

It drifted like a cloud in front of the sun before falling away again, the Doctor shaking his head as the half-smile slipped from the corner of his mouth. Dammit, why couldn't he stop being pig-headed for just _two seconds_?

"Dean." Just one word, but Winchester understood everything being said within it.

He understood, but he refused to let himself get wrapped in the Doctor's lack of hope, the Time-Lord's determination to carry on blindly. Walk into his destruction without a thought, without any _hesitation_. It would be a worthless sacrifice in so many ways. If he just walked into it without knowing why, without _knowing_ –

_Why must you pick now to be serious? Why_ now_?_

Delicate truths carried their own weight, but (hopefully, maybe, possibly) they could also ease the burden the Time-Lord carried, if not leave him feeling less alone.

'_You are never alone, Doctor, not as long as I'm here, I can promise you that_.'

"Please. For me," Dean pressed, frowning down at his fingers when the Doctor made a small unhappy noise beside him, knowing he had pushed that one final button the Time-Lord couldn't resist: a plea from a friend. Consideration _for_ that friend was so deeply etched into the alien's psyche, there was no refusing it. "I don't know what happened with Amy and Rory...and _christ, _andRiver_. _But I know you did everything you could to prevent it."

"Dean..." Another sorrowful snatch of breath from the passenger seat, the Doctor's whisper ringing through the stillness of the Impala's interior like he had shouted it. Dean waited him out – knowing it might take a minute, it might take quite a few – but this was make or break time. He had the Doctor listening, had him _thinking. A_ll Dean had to do was be patient, let him speak, and the pieces would fall into place.

The Doctor fidgeted for a moment, his restlessness a good sign as far as Dean was concerned. Any touch of animation, any fleeting glimpse of that _spark_, meant that he was thinking, reacting. Dean felt he could breathe again, reassured of who it was sitting beside him. He no longer had that sense of a stranger wearing the Doctor's face. Even if the alien was just trying to reiterate what he had already said earlier, the _way_ he said it was different now. The energy behind it was more fiery, his voice steadier without that frosty calm that had set Dean's teeth on edge.

He was finally getting through, pushing past the Oncoming Storm to the man underneath. It was good to see him again. He hadn't realized how much he had missed him until that moment. All this time, Dean had worried whether he should have confronted the Time-Lord or not, but now he was fiercely glad the Doctor had come, that the TARDIS had thought to drop him off at Singer Salvage. _This_ was a man he could save, even if he had to save him from himself. Fuck knows they had done that exact same thing for each other countless times in their brief (but tight) friendship.

Dean only wished he could do this a thousand times more.

_If wishes were horses… _

"Your surety is touching." A dry volley, the words designed for sarcasm, but the sincerity behind them left the intended barbs falling short of the mark. The Doctor waited a beat or two before continuing, his voice gentle as if he was explaining something that was hard to understand, even for him. Dean didn't begrudge him the effort; as in most things with the man, he fully grasped the motivation behind it. He just refused to be swayed by it. "But…being around me, it-it _kills_ people."

The Doctor's brow furrowed again, eyes closed as he tried to breathe through his own words – keep himself rational and calm – distant from the words he spoke. Dean's heart clenched in protest, but he stayed quiet, let the words wash over him and be felt in a way they never had been before. The echoes of his own inner thoughts falling out of the Doctor's mouth with a rolling ease that left him spooked and oddly resentful. He couldn't deny that such heavy loss was a Winchester fate, but it was hard to hear that it was the Doctor's as well: even if he had always, _always_ known the Doctor lost more (in his mind), than he had ever saved.

"_Good _people, Dean, and I…I just can't take that anymore." Dean looked up to see that soft twitch of a smile sitting on the Doctor's lips again. His eyes terrible, yet kind, even as the most awful half-truths fell out of his mouth. His ability to lie to himself was only surpassed by his ability to lie to others. "You see it as suicide, I see it as...removal of a problem. You may be right. I may have saved a lot of people – but I've killed so many _more_. I've gotten reckless, Dean. I've gotten old and thoughtless."

It was Dean's turn to shake his head, refusing to hear any more slander against the Time-Lord, even if it came from his own mouth. He knew why the Doctor was saying it. He finally knew why he had pushed everyone away, why he tried to convince himself and his friends that he wasn't worth the effort. Dean didn't know how Amy and Rory had handled this moment (if they had even been given that chance) but he knew he wasn't going to let it pass without calling it out for the bullshit it was.

"You're not going to convince me, so you might as well stop right there." He took a deep breath, feeling the actual truth of the matter sing up from that tight spot in his chest, easing the ache as he told the Time-Lord what they both needed to hear, as bare and raw as they could take it. "And I know if I called up Amy and Rory right now, they'd be heartbroken. So - so much for breaking anything."

He ignored the small unhappy noise the Doctor made and barreled on through, knowing these things needed to be said. It might not stop the inevitable – hell, it might make walking toward it harder in the long run – but he couldn't let the Doctor walk to his death unloved and unwanted, with no one to fight for him, fully believing that no one would. There were some lies that should never be told, least of all to oneself. It had taken Dean most of his life to figure that out, and he still wasn't done learning.

"You can't stop people from caring about you – hey! You listening to me? You can't stop that any more than you stopped caring for us. I mean, you are going to what - step in front of a bullet or something? - and save us all. Because _that _is what you _do_." _What_ we _do_. "But don't try to convince me that it is 'okay' for you to do that. I'm mad as _fuck_ that you are going to die and that I can't do a _damned_ thing about it. But I won't disrespect your reasons. And I'm sure if anyone could have found a way - it would have been you."

The Doctor's hands twisted and twisted in his lap, the movement a clear sign of how stunned Dean's outburst had left him. The Time-Lord's eyes were distant as he watched his fingers dance together and apart again, lips thin as he mulled over Dean's words.

Was it really less than an hour ago he looked like this; looked so, so old and so, so very young?

A feeling of déjà vu swept down Dean's spine and across his shoulders, making him shiver. Even the Doctor's brief half-smile couldn't remove the chill from Dean's bones. The aliens' eyes said it was going to be okay, but it really, really wasn't. Dean found it hard to breathe against such a look, but this time it was for all the right reasons.

There was just a hint of humor when the Doctor finally spoke, driving home the seriousness of his question. "Never stopped believing, have you, Dean?"

The Doctor had always held such unshakeable faith in him, it was almost too for Dean easy to return the favor.

"Fuckin' A, _right_," Dean coughed, letting his eyes drop and resisting the urge to smile. The sudden realization of just how personal the last forty-five minutes had been had him instinctually backpedaling, but only just a little bit. "Just...ask why, okay? That's all you have to do. Maybe it will lead to an answer. Maybe it will lead to the right _question_. But promise me you'll ask why."

"_Dean_," Tired, but with that touch of life Dean had been seeking since the TARDIS first touched down in Bobby's yard. It made him sound like the _Doctor_, and Dean allowed the small – okay, _large_ – part of him that had missed the man soak it up while he could. He may be losing another friend, but the Doctor was still willing to be Dean's friend, to give back a little. Albeit, this time around Dean at least had some warning before the Time-Lord just disappeared from his life. Though, on some level, Dean couldn't quite decide if that was better or worse.

He turned the Chevy's engine over, letting her throaty purr over-ride the Time-Lord's objections. The classic machine rumbled beneath them in that wonderfully familiar way that left them both smiling in contentment. Dean paused for a moment, dropping her into drive before turning to give the Doctor an assessing glance, letting his smile stay even though he needed the alien to take him seriously. He needed him to do more than listen – he needed him to walk away with the need to know, even if it changed nothing. Dean needed him to _know_ before he just accepted. That was the only way true peace could be achieved here.

"That's all," Dean said gently, but firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument, or interpretation. "Just promise me you'll ask why."

He was more than a little pleased when the Doctor jerked his head in a nod, his gaze meeting Dean's and showing he was being truthful, even if not completely honest – well, as truthful as the Doctor ever could be, at least.

"Okay, Dean...for you." The Doctor let that sit between them for a moment before chuckling quietly. The indefinable touch of mirth he generally carried was creeping back into his expression, spilling out of the corners of his mouth and eyes. His voice thick with fond exasperation when he next spoke, "_Why_ do I let you talk me into things?"

Dean laughed at that, the sound surprising, relieving and just a touch _disbelieving_. There was no real answer. The two of them had a bad habit of doing just that. Talking one another in and out of so much crap, it was astounding they hadn't known each other their whole lives.

So he gave the only answer he could: an answer that was not an answer, even as it covered every question that could ever be asked.

"Cause I'm fucking _adorable_." It was cheeky, irreverent and just what the doctor ordered.

"I guess you are at that," the Time-Lord rumbled, laughter edging his words even as he kept his voice even and nonchalant.

"Damn right." Dean nodded, almost sighing with happiness as he pulled onto the road, turning the Chevy's nose back the way they had come, but not letting off the brake fully, not yet.

He turned to look at the man in the passenger seat, wondering if there was more to be said, wondering if he could fully express how grateful he was to be his friend, even if it was for such a fleeting span of time. He could feel his shoulders rise in an outward shrug, even as he gave himself a mental shake. There really were no words; but as the Doctor smiled at him (ridiculous bowtie tilted and slightly askew), he knew he really didn't need them.

"Now, let's get you back to the Old Girl. Sure She misses you by now," Dean mused, letting the Impala idle down the dirt lane. Even if he was grateful to leave all the pain behind them, Dean felt a longing tug for the quiet and peace they left in their wake.

"And Sam will be wondering where we've run off to…" The Doctor returned mildly.

"That, too," Dean agreed. Then, "While I have a chance -"

"More '_chick-flick_', Dean?" A soft nudge, a light tease to keep them both from sliding backwards, and oh, how Dean had missed this asshole.

"Shut up," Dean groused, but there was no heat behind it. He kept his tone light, hoping his words could cover everything, even when they were staggeringly inadequate in his own head. "Thank you...and-and I'll miss you. You've…been a great friend. It's kept me going, knowing you're out there, doing your thing amongst the stars."

_And I think it will half-kill me when you aren't anymore..._

"Sounds like you'll be fine," the Doctor said lightly, but his profile said he heard, he understood – and how could you not miss someone (already) who always got you when even you couldn't understand yourself? "You'll hardly notice I'm gone."

It was self-depreciating, but more from habit than anything else, that smile still lining the inside of the Time-Lord's voice.

"Doubt that..." Dean admitted in a sudden burst of honesty, trying to not tense when the Doctor shot him a look of surprise. "And I'm _anything _but fine. I've learned how to deal over the years, but…" He shrugged, feeling better for having said it, even as his insides rebelled slightly, years of habit almost overriding his need to give a little. He had pushed the Doctor hard today, the least he could do was give something back.

The Time-Lord absorbed that for a moment, head tilted to watch Dean, even as it looked for all the world that he was taking in the scenery outside as it steadily flowed by them. The Impala's speed picked up as they neared the point where dirt and gravel became pavement. He watched the Doctor nod to himself, their eyes meeting before Dean's went back to the road, and the Doctor's to the passenger window, reflection ever watchful.

"I'm sorry," the alien started, pausing to lick his lips, his voice just a touch deeper with unspoken sympathy. "I'm sorry…about Castiel. I shouldn't have made that crack earlier –"

"No. I know why you did," Dean replied. The Doctor's apology eased an ache he didn't even know he'd had. "But thanks…miss him like crazy already, you know? I have a nasty feeling that he won't be the only one I'll miss here soon. And yes, that means _you_."

They both swayed a bit when the wheels finally hit blacktop, the engine thrumming steady and calm as the car settled onto the road, tires whispering as they got nearer to where they had started from…even as they were miles away from where they were before.

"I'm not happy about this, Doc," Dean murmured over the hum of the Impala. "I'm not ever _gonna _be. But I understand. I just…want you to go down swinging - that's the Doctor I know."

The Doctor opened his mouth, then thought better of it, closing it again with a snap. Instead he mulled over his thoughts as he studied Dean in the refracted curve of the passenger window.

Then finally, "I'll try to be the best man I can be, Dean." His words held all the sincerity his years could muster and Dean felt something else in his chest unlock, an ache being erased even as another took its place.

"You've already done that," Dean replied, hands caressing the steering wheel lovingly as they came up on their turn. "Just don't let them take you without a fight. _Any _fight. Don't tell the people you love that they shouldn't care - and don't make their caring _less_...okay? I've done that. It doesn't work as well as you might think."

The Doctor let that pass for a moment, eyebrow twitching upwards as he considered Dean's words, weighing the gravity behind them without so much as a flicker of a smile. They let the silence roll for a few minutes, warmer and more comfortable that it had been an hour ago. The press of enjoying the moment – as Dean and the Doctor, the Doctor and Dean – as fleeting as their moment may be, it was more important than any small talk or flattery could ever be.

But it couldn't last. The Doctor beat Dean to the inevitable icebreaker, right on cue.

"So wise for one so young," the Doctor remarked, his tone dry, laughter held just behind lips. Dean knew he had been dying, _itching_ to say that, leaving the human fighting to keep the smile off of his own face. "Tell me, how did you _ever_ manage to come up with that gem of –"

"Shut up," Dean retorted, laughing despite himself.

And with a grin (that familiar, famous, thousand-watt display of teeth), the Doctor did.

They got back to Bobby's faster than Dean would have liked, the drive a helluva lot shorter than he had previously thought. Warm quiet filled the spaces between the minutes, even the radio was kept off as the two men contemplated the past and the future. Their musings spiraled up and away from them as the Impala spun away the miles in a slow churn of wheels.

In that small space of time, heading to one man's Home and the other's familiar structure of safety, it was just them against the future. Just Dean and the Doctor, the Doctor and Dean (this one last time); there was nowhere either of them would rather have been.

**DW~SPN~DW~SPN~DW**

It seemed like hours (and yet nanoseconds) since they had left, but all too soon, the Impala's nose crossed under the iron barrier of Singer Salvage. A slight shiver ran through both of them as the metaphorical threshold was breached. The sleek vehicle's heavy engine caught once, then smoothed out as she rolled sedately, regally back to where the TARDIS sat. The two Classics seemed to nod at one another as the car purred to a stop mere feet from the Doctor's Ship.

They sat there for a moment, still wrapped in the spell of silence, of a fleeting peace and contentment as the sun bled slowly towards the west; late afternoon spinning into early evening with a slow smear of glorious color, all of Nature saying hello and goodbye in one cosmic breath.

Dean could sense the tension building in the Doctor, his fear of the unknown warring with his determination to leave; politeness and apology the only things keeping his hand from the catch on the door. Dean knew (as much as he wished otherwise) that he couldn't keep him here, hanging just over the edge of the future. It was laughable to think that he, a mere human, could protect something as powerful and awe-inspiring as the Doctor...but he wanted to. He wanted to keep him safe in this bubble of non-Time, until it collapsed on its own.

With a small puff of resignation, he took mercy on them both and turned off the Chevy's engine, reaching for the door only when she creaked to silence. A small glance to his right told him the Doctor was waiting for his move.

The ball was in Dean's court.

He opened the driver's door and unfolded from the seat, bones feeling old and delicate, even as he thrummed with too much energy. He knew the feeling: it was the anticipation before a Hunt, it was the sight of a new morning, it was the satisfaction of winning and the horror of defeat all wrapped up in one tight ball. It was Unknown and though he lived with it every day, this time (this Time) it was different.

This time he knew the ending.

He might not know everything. He might not know how it happened. But he knew Over when he felt it. Just as he knew he'd drink too much tonight, wake up with a sore head (and temper to match) in the morning; that knowing still wouldn't erase this feeling. Nothing would. Not until…not until _It_ happened.

And he would know. It would be cold that day. He knew the Universe would shiver to a stop before moving on. He would _feel_ it – he would _know_.

He just didn't know what he would do about it.

He looked over as the Doctor mirrored his actions, the screech of the heavy door comforting, but too loud. The TARDIS was a monument, a warm shadow next to them, seeming to loom over them both as if trying to hold them close under Her very presence. Dean looked at Her in dry-mouthed awe, wishing for just one more look at Her, wishing he had said 'yes' to the unasked question.

Now he never would.

He wished that didn't hurt so much.

He spared a glance at the Doctor, smiling slightly when he saw the alien had been doing the exact same thing, looking at his Girl and wishing and hoping, even against odds stacked insurmountably high. A challenge – always a challenge…

"Hey," it came out as a croak and Dean forced himself to swallow around the ache and try again. Keeping his smile fixed, even as it trembled, Dean said as smoothly as he could, "Would you, uhhh –"

The Doctor tore his eyes from his Ship, his smile just as fixed and gentle. His eyes seemed almost too bright, but his gaze was steady and honestly calm. He seemed so ancient and young and melancholy and joyous it made Dean catch his breath around it. Deep down, where he stored all the good things, the bright things, the things comprised of dreams and hopes that never faded, Dean felt something tug and settle, serenity pooling in to soothe any hurt left behind.

"No," the Time-Lord said softly, smile solidifying, even as sorrow tugged at the corners of it. "Not really a good idea, I think. Actually – I know…but you do, too. You know –"

_What is waiting for you beyond Bobby's door._

Dean nodded, swallowing around that damnable lump, even as warmth and peace washed against it wearing it down. Peace was not to be squandered, friendship was a treasure – both were rare, both were of a value that could not be named.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know – but," Dean shrugged one shoulder, smile wavering even as the Doctor closed the passenger door, tipping the Stetson back on his head as he scanned the yard; wrecks of old cars teetering against one another to spill across the neck of the sky – holding the universe up as the universe cradled them to the earth.

Gravel crunched softly against boots that were probably older than Dean (even time Downstairs factored in), and the sway of the Doctor's trench was almost audible against the raging stillness of the junkyard. His smile could be felt through the stretch of Dean's skin as he stood close, shoulder brushing shoulder, and they studied each other without looking. Weighing, assessing, and measuring, they both came up even, relaxing back into the evening, even as the Goodbye drew nearer than ever.

"Never hurts to offer," the Doctor finished for Dean.

The Time-Lord tilted his head towards the TARDIS and it was Dean's turn to shake his head. Laughter bubbled up behind the lines of his lips, even as he blinked back a sting that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the corners of his eyes. At one time, that would have bothered, annoyed, ruffled him. Now, he saw it as his due. It still irritated him, but the Doctor irritated him sometimes, too. And that was okay. That was familiar, warm and wonderful –

That was family.

"Yeah." Dean agreed, assenting to a lot of things, both the said and unsaid. He didn't regret some of the unsaid things…some words could be ruined if spoken out loud. It was best to feel them and let them go while holding them close.

"Getting philosophical in your wise years," the Doctor murmured, that same laughter reined in tight behind his teeth.

"Comes with the sore back and aching feet," Dean quipped, not knowing what he meant, but knowing the Doctor did – and that was good enough.

It was his turn to sweep the Doctor into a hug and he didn't miss his cue, folding the alien into his arms in a rough pull. Breathing in that comforting smell of wool and stardust, Dean tried to memorize it. He wanted to keep it, hold it close to the other memories/smells/ideas/sounds of shared affection. Selfishly he wanted to keep it close to the other millions of details in his mind that meant friendship, family and home. For once, he didn't hold back, knowing all too well how many times he had and regretted it. For once, he let himself miss his friend, even though he was right here.

The brim of the Stetson brushed Dean's temple as the Doctor tucked his chin to Dean's shoulder, swaying with him a moment as they pounded each other roughly on the back, their hold locked – a challenge and a draw all at once.

"Hey," Dean rasped, giving the Doctor's neck a final squeeze and shake before releasing him from the embrace. "Doc, if…if you make it out of this -"

The Doctor untangled himself reluctantly, smiling even as his eyes were unknowable again. That was okay, though. There were some things Dean didn't need to be told – he knew them anyway.

"Big '_If_' there, Dean," was the mild reply, one hand coming up to pat Dean's cheek in a gesture that was irritating and wonderful all at once Dean leaned into the pat without thinking, and he had to quickly pull back in an effort to save face. The Doctor grinned anyway, hands dropping to sit heavily on his hips as he glanced behind himself to the TARDIS, Her exterior seeming to glow, even as light faded slowly from the sky above.

Dean nodded his acknowledgement, even as he steeled himself with hope – the currency and bane of their realm, and sometimes the only thing they had to barter with.

"But if you do," Dean hesitated, watching the Doctor's face as he smiled with his mouth and his eyes at the same time; the expression telling Dean it would be okay – even if it never would be. "If you do...drop a guy a note, will ya? Just in case..."

The Doctor laughed, head tipping back to the sky for a mere moment. He looked so, so alien even as he fitted so well against the seam of the world. Dean loved him and hated him fiercely all at once (and ohh, wouldn't the Doctor find that even funnier in all the ways that weren't humorous). He wished he could have just one more adventure, even as he wished he had never been burdened with caring about him. But that wasn't unusual…that was life – and all the beautiful and terrifying things that it was comprised of.

The Time-Lord spun smoothly on one heel, moving with a graceful, almost ethereal glide to his Machine, never looking more removed than at that moment – one hand on Her door_ (Hello, Sexy_), fingers tucked in the thin lines between Her panels, reverence and centuries of comfort in that one move– even as he smiled over his shoulder. The twitch of his lips, the mirth in his eyes brought Dean straight to the here and now, awareness of everything around them singing over and through him.

The Doctor thought it through, shoulder coming up in a half shrug as he gave Dean's wishes due thought. He nodded his agreement, no harm in offering.

"I will, Dean," He seemed so alien and odd and human and ordinary in that moment. His voice was lowered as though he was sharing a secret that could topple the universe. "That much I _can _promise."

Dean nodded as the Time-Lord folded his long limbs through the door, splashes of orange-gold spilling from the interior. Dean was almost thankful to have the man leaving, but still felt a heavy regret when that door closed, the soft click shivering through Dean's bones. The sound seemed to move beyond him, creaking against the cars stacked all around him, whole worlds rising and falling within the force of that sound.

There were so many things he had wanted to ask, so many things he never wanted to know. Sometimes, he knew the Doctor was relieved by that – the one man who would never want to know, even as his very core shouted questions. This had been his last chance to ask them.

But the Doctor hadn't even paused, intuiting the truth before Dean could even think it: he would get there when he got there. Sometimes foreshadowing (not spoilers, just hints) was worse than the Unknown.

So it was a relief and a regret when two breaths later the earth rumbled under his feet – silver incorporeal nimbus popping into place around the TARDIS as the light on top of the Time-Machine whirred to life. Each sweep shuddered down Her frame, pushing Her out of the space that She occupied and forcing Dean's reality back in. She groaned and wheezed to Herself (the sound promising safety and comfort and adventure and exhilaration – tugging at that secret place of memory in Dean's heart and mind), as She flickered in and out of being. The rushing whoosh of Her engines faded as the molecules rushed back in to occupy the empty spaces.

He forced himself to stand and watch as the wind from the Vortex whipped around and past him, blowing dirt across his boots and the smell of stardust against his face. Then, with a mild sonic boom, She was gone again, the emptiness She left behind too big to be filled with the mundane reality left in Her wake.

It hurt to realize he would miss Her, too.

"Goodbye, Old Girl," he said to where She had been. "Take good care of him."

He stood there for a long time, trying to breathe in Reality and breathe out the wrongness that permeated that patch of ground where She had stood guard. He stood there until the impossible orange-gold of the early evening fell into the bluest-blue before he stepped across the point where She had sat (solidness shivering over his skin), to head to the house, hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, head down, eyes following his boots as they walked him to the back door. He mounted the steps one at a time. The thrill of victory, of accomplishment lightening his tread, even as the gravity of loss, the tired pull of losing dragged across his shoulders.

Dean stepped into the muggy warmth of Bobby's home – feeling the threshold bend and snap back, too much awareness in his blood. He hung up his jacket, placed his keys (carefully, quietly) on the side-table near the stairs. His body tilted to the murmur of voices in the kitchen. He needed the company. He needed his family, even as he wished to retreat.

How did you explain winning a loss?

But then, how did one explain _anything _having to do with the Doctor?

He let the dim (homey, cradling) light of Bobby's kitchen spill across his boots for one second, then two then three, before stepping into the sudden silence. Their eyes were on him for a mere moment; pulling away quickly when he looked up. They knew.

Dean hesitated, then swept past them, heading to the fridge in a rush. He reached for a beer (really wishing for the hard stuff), but then changed his mind and settled on a can of Coke. A smile twitched into existence as he thought briefly of the Doctor and his reaction to the beverage. Turning away from the fridge, Dean popped the tab, committing himself before he could change his mind and grab a beer anyway.

He took a swig, blinking back carbonation, before turning to face Bobby and Sam. He forced himself to look at them before blowing out a small breath, in an effort to lose some tension.

"How long?" The question wanted to be asked, even as it wanted to stick in his throat. He was amazed it didn't come out as a squeak.

They both started to talk at once, stilled by a short swipe of his hand through the air, fingertips dangling the can carefully before he took another drink. He smiled at them to let them know he wasn't angry.

He was surprised he wasn't angry…but he was too tired to be angry, too tired to waste the effort, and too awake to not forgive them. Somehow, he knew they had been protecting him. And though he didn't like it, he knew that sometimes – _sometimes_ – you did things you thought better of later when it came to those you love.

They tried to protect him. The Doctor did the same thing. In the end, all they did was hold each other up and help each other forward (for good or bad) and right now, that was all that counted.

"Just…how long?"

"A few weeks, maybe," Sam answered slowly, Bobby a solid and silent presence beside him. The pressure of their eyes comforting and restricting all at once. "I'm sorry, Dean. I just didn't know how –"

"It's okay," Dean interrupted. He was even more surprised to find that deep down, beyond the white lies and shells he used to protect himself with, it really was okay. "Who?"

"Rory," Bobby rumbled, his voice rushing in to soothe the hollow spaces that might be left behind.

"Ahhh," Dean murmured, knowing all the reasons why it was Rory and not Amy: Amy would be too upset, Amy wouldn't believe it (even if she saw it and Dean half-suspected she did), Amy was protecting him – and Rory was protecting her. He refused to believe Rory didn't care. Just because he wasn't loud with it, didn't mean he didn't care. Rory did so quietly, but fiercely.

The fact that he called at all spoke volumes.

"He wanted to speak to you, but…" Sam's voice was faded with worry and preparation. His exhaustion bled through his voice, a twin to Dean's, their combined weariness making Dean's bones seem heavier than ever, the day rushing to catch up with him. But it didn't matter. He tried to keep his own worry at bay, the automatic reflex to reassure Sammy, to keep him content kicked in, and he drew some strength from the act of the habit, if nothing else.

"It's okay, Sammy," he smiled, knowing he looked as tired and as worn as Sam felt. "I know. I understand, man – I really do."

Dean drained the last of the coke and crumpled the can without thinking. Bobby never could stand it, and the man flinched even now as Dean tossed the can into the trash. Spinning to clamp a warm hand on Bobby's shoulder, Dean nodded to his brother and gave Singer a small shake, letting them know it was okay, it was alright. Tomorrow it may not be, but today it was all okay.

"I'm heading to bed, guys – save me some stew, yeah?"

The tension drained out of the corners of the kitchen when he said that, both of them standing to crowd close – as close as he would let them – stoic bookends: family, protection and something to lean on when he was done in. Bobby's hand clapped down between his shoulder-blades as Sam gave him a slight nudge, swaying with him when he leaned into it.

"Sure, Dean," Bobby rasped, as Sam nodded his silent assent. "Want us to wake you later?"

"Nahh," Dean murmured, soaking up their quiet support and letting it wash over him like he never had before. Usually, he was the one to do that, to give a shoulder to lean on. He never took it when offered, always shying away from it, like it might make him less. But today he would be less if he didn't accept it for what it was, if he didn't thank them for it. "It's been a long day – longer day tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," they echoed, gentle and rough and dismissive and intense – and very much there if he needed them.

"Car needs water…carburetor needs some adjustment –"

"And the Doctor?" Not pressing, but needing to know, that was Sam all over.

"Saving the stars," - _with his life_ - "like he always does." Dean replied, giving them a crooked grin. "Thanks, guys…see you all in the morning?"

_Will you be there? Can you be there? _

"Always, son," Bobby rumbled, already turning back to the stew on the stove like the question needed never be asked.

"Sure, Dean," Sam smiled, his assurance a promise of so many things.

**DW~SPN~DW~SPN~DW**

It took a long time to fall asleep, even as weary as he was. He shifted to see outside of the window and found he could only truly let himself go when he found that one star – _the bluest-blue – _nestled amidst the smeared pitch of the sky, the wink of its light following him down into sleep.

It had been a long day – a good day, a horrible day_, _filled with endings that were actually beginnings – but it could always be an even longer day tomorrow.

He slept deeply, the first restful sleep he had gotten since he had lost Castiel, the blink of that one strange star hovering to keep watch over him all throughout the long dark.


	6. Chapter 6

**~When I Find My Peace of Mind~**

_Odd buzzing noise near his ear._

_Answered by an electric screech above that feels like it should be just out of range of his hearing and yet it's not. It's also not unpleasant, though he feels like it should be. It also feels like he should be feeling _something_. _

_Someone is humming…_

Turn up the radio…I wanna feel it gotta give me some more

_Familiar. _

_Dean reaches out (flails really) and hits something rough, yet smooth all at once. The something lets out a startled yelp._

"_Oi! Stop that!"_

_And cool hands are folding around his, pushing his arms back down._

_He hears more musical humming (around-underneath-within), but it's not from The Voice –_

_He _knew_ that voice._

_Reaches out again (can't see for some reason) and encounters buttons; up, up and he's got…a bowtie?_

The Doctor_._

"_Hey. Stop that," the voice (_theDoctor_) said calmly – annoyingly amused. Or is that amusingly annoyed? Never can tell with him. Dean's hands were folded back down and the Doctor's voice traveled a little distance away – maybe to avoid being felt up any further._

_Dean had no idea why that thought was funny rather than horrifying._

"_You have to buy me a drink first…then maybe. But not really. Wonder if you've ever met Jack? Think you'd like him – he'd definitely like _you_, but that's neither here nor there, is it? Still owes me a drink. And his hands were all wandery – like yours are now, though he was rather less drugged and broken bits at the time. Well…_that_ time at least. And you… "_

_The prattling paused, usually not a good thing, but the Doctor was back to humming – and why was that tune familiar? Besides the obvious._

"_Took a bit of a trek to get back here," the Doctor finally said (from the other side of him this time). "But the Old Girl was ready for us…shame you were all passed out and – stop messing with that! It's covering your eyes to assess your neural functions. Dunno why it needs the eyes, but that's logic for you. Always less logical and more with the brain-bending – of course your brain isn't actually _bending_, if that's what you were worried about."_

_Some more humming and Dean felt warmth wash over him, setting his body to shivering. Or maybe it was the introduction of the warmth that was alerting him to having been cold. So _confused_ –_

Why didn't he hurt more?

"_Anyway, Sexy was a bit disappointed. You weren't awake for Her serenade. Cheeky old thing. She likes you, if 'Bad to the Bone' is anything to go by." A deep chuckle, another metallic screech, more warmth. "And it is…something to go by. Lift your right arm, wiggle your fingers."_

_Dean did as instructed, even though he knew he shouldn't be able to. Black Dogs got him on his right side, he remembered that much. Blinding waves of pain and the Doctor's voice and stumbling through the woods and – _

_Singing. They had been singing…_

The only time I turn it down – is when I'm feeling alone

_How did he get here?_

_Was something else chasing them?_

"_Don't worry about it, Dean," a gentle command, but a firm one all the same. "Seems you bit off a tad more than you could chew, but that's alright, we'll soon get it sorted. All nice and safe now, in the TARDIS."_

_Some more satisfied humming, then another electronic screech. Dean wished he could _see_ – for just a _moment_ –_

"_I'll have that off you in no time, just a few more adjustments to make. Doesn't mean you'll be able to move right away though, sorry – you're stuck here for at least a full 24 hours…or is that 28? We'll find out soon enough, I suppose." Quick shuffling sounds to his right, the whisper-creak of the Doctor's boots across a floor (tile?) and some more distracted humming._

"_Don't rightly know what you've gotten yourself into," the Doctor muttered, sounding like he was talking more to himself then Dean (and knowing him, he probably was). His voice was both agitated and fond with the prospect of an adventure around the corner. The Doctor loved adventures._

"_I do love an adventure." _

_Dean had to supress a chuckle at that, and the Doctor's voice had a smile when he leaned over him to do…_something_. There was an increase in pressure on Dean's right side, then he was commanded to wiggle his fingers again._

"_Right. Well then! Halfway there, yes? Anyway, as I was saying…" another distracted murmur, another electronic wail and then (_there it was_) the mild buzz of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. "Just another…there we go! What was I saying? Ah, yes – you seemed to have stumbled across something a little _bigger_ than what you were originally hunting. Of course, you didn't know that – so, lucky I turned up then, eh? Oh, get that look off your face. Of course, I swooped in, then we staggered out and off we popped, into the TARDIS. Whatever is waiting out there…well, I'll have a look once you are more stabilised."_

Can't go out there by yourself, Doctor.

"'_Course I can." It was said irritably, which meant – _shit_, Dean had said that out loud. "I just generally prefer not to – stop that now, you're going to off-set the healing process and then where will you be? Stuck here longer, that's what."_

_Dean could feel himself starting to fade. The lack of pain, combined with warmth left him more tired than he could stand – but he didn't want to sleep just yet. There was something important he needed to say, something –_

"_It is perfectly alright, Dean," the Time-Lord soothed._

_Cool fingers brushed across his forehead, the gesture fond and yet somehow exasperated…and way more comforting than he had any right to expect._

"_Get some rest. We'll talk later. There are…a few things we need to talk about, I think."_

**o-o-o**

_It was later that it came apart. _

_It started when he had awakened in what turned out to be the Time-Machine's medical bay – which shouldn't have been odd in and of itself and yet it somehow _was_; even as he knew medical facilities should be part and parcel of any travel._

_It went wrong mere minutes after he blinked awake. _

_When he found the he could see, the first thing Dean noticed was the Doctor watching him. His eyes were sad and knowing, his voice calm as he gently asked how long Dean had been drinking...or had he never really stopped?_

_The question shouldn't have angered him as much as it did_.

_The Doctor's voice was soft and his expression kindly understanding (understanding! he had no _right_ to be _understanding_)._ _In less than three questions, the Doctor's demeanor undid _years_ worth of denial.__ Dean had done the only thing he could do – he fought back, even as the Doctor was unarmed. He tried to torpedo any hope of assistance, even as he saw the Doctor wasn't going to stop, wasn't going to turn away…no matter how much Dean wished he would. _

_He wanted him to be like everybody else, even as the Time-Lord was like no one else. Dean needed to have his own reasons for seeking liquid oblivion shored up. He needed the Doctor to be angry back, dismissive or condescending –_

"_Why should you even care?" Dean had snapped, horrified at himself even as he wanted to rage against a being that he considered a friend, considered family. But look how his family and friends treated him – why shouldn't the Doctor do the same? "You're only going to leave in the end, anyway, what does it _matter_?"_

_The Doctor rose from his chair at that, eyes too kind and ancient and tired as he attempted a smile that fell flat across his lips. He didn't answer – and those questions would haunt Dean days later, when the Doctor would decide for them both how to save _him_, Dean Winchester, and not himself, when he chose to leave in a way that was not acceptable then and wasn't acceptable now. Only at that time, in those moments, did Dean have a choice (or he found one, he was never really sure). This time things were a little different. He didn't have to like it, but he could come to terms with it._

_But it didn't mean that it didn't _matter_. _

_It didn't (couldn't) stop him from caring._

_Seemed the Doctor'd had the last word after all – without even saying a thing._

**DW~SPN~DW~SPN~DW**

It was hot.

Not one of those pleasant types of hot that had you sipping lemonade out on a front porch, listening to a radio and planning your next barbeque; but a wrapped in wet towels, slowly suffocating type of hot that left you drained as soon as you woke up, sleepwalking through the day only to wish you could sleep that night. Combine that with being in a pine cabin that had seen better days, no air conditioning to speak of and miles of nothing all around – and you got the type of heat that made tempers fray and finally snap.

Television was on the blink again, too.

Which meant books that were either written in Latin that gave Dean a headache, or books that he had already read five times out of sheer boredom that could potentially give him (not to mention Sam and Bobby) a headache before he was two paragraphs in. This left him with crossword puzzles, a radio that only got two stations (country and modern rock) and the pervasive April heat that never seemed to taper off. Even a beer couldn't touch it – which also did nothing to ease his temper.

The very last thing that made him so tempermental was hidden under a couch cushion where Sam and Bobby were least likely to spot it, where he could ignore it as he chose (though it never really left his mind). It wasn't like it gave him nightmares (though it did); it wasn't like it carried bad memories back to the surface with just the few lines of ink stamped across it (though it did that, too). It was more the finality of it. It was like a few lines of type being handed to a fresh widow by a couple of crisp young men in uniform, their faces drawn in a standard issue 'we are so sorry for your loss' look. It was nothing like that, yet that's exactly what it was.

A contradiction in terms, just like the envelope it was wrapped in. The envelope was blue – /_bluest-blue; bigger on the inside/ – _but nothing so small could contain the enormity of what it meant.

"Shouldn't matter," Dean muttered to the empty cabin (for what was probably the thousandth time since he had found the damned thing). "It's not like you really _knew_ him."

The sting of betrayal when he said that out loud hadn't gotten any better. It was the truth, but it still didn't make it better. It wasn't the length of time – he knew that. You could know someone all their life and never know them (he had tons of examples to draw from), and yet meet the friend of a lifetime and only get five minutes with them.

But he also didn't want to care either. Caring only made it harder. It only made it worse.

So he did it the Winchester way – and just ignored it.

Didn't seem to be working out too well though.

His dreams the past two nights were filled with green fire overlaid by a golden light so bright your eyes ached to see it. A full moon in midday over a placid lake of blue surrounded by red sand. There was only one voice – in all the dream – only one. And he knew it as well as he knew Sam's, or Bobby's, or his own father's.

And he would see _him_ and know it was over –

_/"I'm sorry –"/_

Drinking hadn't looked so good since he had crawled out of Hell. And considering how their lives had fully blown apart in the last month, that was saying something.

So he supposed he resented it. The madman in a blue box showed up and his life went to shit again. He knew it wasn't the Doctor's fault – _when was it ever _truly_ his fault? – _but it was just one dominio in a series that landed him here with no car, Bobby's place blown to a ragged hole in the ground, Sam getting Hell-o-vision 24/7 (and hiding it badly) and a leg in a cast up to his hip, stewing it all over with nothing to do but stare at the Spanish channel (when it came in proper) and wish he was hunting, drinking or fucking; anything but thinking. Thinking led to bad places in his mind, places that no amount of shitty TV, shitty books or even shittier beer could erase.

No, it wasn't his fault. Dean had pushed, he got his answer – and he had tried to put it out of his mind.

Until the envelope arrived.

Now he couldn't get it out of his head, no matter what he did.

"Would help if I could get better crosswords," he mused aloud.

Yeah. Not the slightest bit funny.

"Off your game, Winchester," he grumbled, hauling off of the couch to grab a beer and check the mail slot on his circuit around the cabin. It was his fifteenth circuit of the day, but it helped ease the tension and pass the time. With no Bobby or Sam to give him cross-eyed looks though, the gesture felt oddly empty.

There was nothing at the front door anyway. And weirdly enough, until the envelope showed up, (dated two years before with stamps from all over the world), there never had been. No one delivered out here. No one _knew_ they were out here. Which was how they preferred it.

Hence the funny looks from Bobby and Sam.

They never called him on it though. He half wished they had; but the time of caring about the little things – the quirks and oddities they had developed over the last month – had long passed. They had never been tied so close together and yet, he had never been so removed from his brother and surrogate father.

Being in a cabin out in the middle of bumfuck didn't make you lonely.

Being in a cabin in the middle of bumfuck surrounded by strangers wearing your family's faces made you lonely. And he knew he wasn't the only one who felt that way. It was why Sam was out on a solo hunt and Bobby was out on a two day supply run.

He had come to the conclusion yesterday (as they were both packing up to go) that it was terrible when you had to _be_ alone to feel _less_ alone. And it was even worse when the people you loved felt the same way you did. Close quarter confinement hadn't sat well on any of them; and though they were loathe to leave him laid up, they needed to escape before all three men killed each other.

It was terrible when contentment settled over your bones as the door clicked shut; when even the heat seemed less oppressive as the sound of two car engines cranking and then pulling away floated through the mosquito netting over the windows.

But, that was yesterday.

Dean hobbled to the television and flicked the on button, pulling a disgusted face when he got nothing but static (pounding on the top only made the piece of shit warble alarmingly before going back to white noise). He flicked back it off and dragged his leg to the radio, turning it up full volume and trying to fill the cabin with some noise to distract his mind.

Anything to keep from thinking about that blue omen lodged under the middle cushion of the crumbling couch. With any luck, the damned thing would disappear amid the dust and disintegrating foam, never to be seen again.

For a moment, he felt a sense of panic at the idea and then waved it off, feeling mildly ashamed for wishing it would happen. That envelope would probably sit there until doomsday if he let it. And with how he felt right now – he probably would. Doomsday was always around the corner anyway…

He busied himself washing up the few meager dishes that he had let pile in the sink (for moments just like these) and hummed tunelessly as he worked. It was only when he was halfway through the second stanza did he realise the tune he was humming had nothing to do with the tune blaring out from the radio (another standard emo crapfest) and stopped immediately, goosebumps crawling along his arms –

_The only time, I turn it down – is when I'm feeling alone…_

"Fuck," Dean whispered, staring down at the half-dry coffee cup in his hands. "Fucking figures you'd ruin the only good song Autograph came out with."

The thought was disloyal and unworthy, but his chest ached too much already to feel ashamed. Waking up the last two mornings had been hell. Hiding the fact that he might have been crying when he had done so was even worse. Bobby and Sam didn't know about the envelope…

"_They have no _right_ to know," _he thought,fiercely.

And he was in no rush to fill them in. Yeah, it was another secret. Yeah, he should probably have told them. But it wasn't like they had fallen all over themselves to tell him when Rory called two months ago. And the Doctor wasn't _their_ friend. The Doctor was his…_had been his_…friend. This was Dean's alone, his to deal with alone. And if _that_ was selfish and untrustworthy and disloyal, well – he had earned a one-off, right?

"Why am I thinking about this again?" He muttered irritably, setting the coffee mug down a little harder than intended (the 'thonk' sound it made against the counter was highly satisfying). "I'm suppose to forget this, just…let it go."

But that wasn't fair, either. He had asked for an answer – the Doctor had conceded his wishes. It wasn't his fault that it was the worst timing possible.

"But when is the timing good?" He shrugged. "When I start talking to myself or just before?"

He chuckled to himself, the sound filling the spaces the radio left void and it almost felt good, it almost felt like home. Odd, as his home was metal and glass encasing an engine on four wheels, but this moment was as close to contentment as he could find with a broken leg, bad memories at the door and more just ahead. Okay, he was in a shitty cabin with a busted TV, nothing to really do and a radio that had only two stations coming in clear (if they came in at all) – but Sam was alive, Bobby was alive and he was alive (even if severely bored). Sam was next door to bonkers, Bobby had lost his home and Dean was laid up and out of the game; but they were all alive.

Which, as things went, was more than he could say for the madman with a blue box.

The chuckle died on his lips and he scowled at the now-dry coffee mug with a species of childish resentment. It wasn't going to leave him alone until he dealt with it. He asked, the Doctor (or someone close to him) had delivered, so it was no one's fault but his own. Normally he could bury this, put it out of his head – but circumstances here of late were anything but normal (even for them), and putting things out of his head had gotten almost impossible.

Not to mention if he kept putting this off and happened to nap out on that couch –

_/Flashes of green and gold; full moon so, so vivid in the Western sky; the Doctor's face full of sorrow and apology –_

"_I'm sorry –"/_

"Fuck."

It was impossible. There was no way to know what happened. There was no way he could be positively one hundred percent sure. But he knew in his gut – this was how the Doctor died. This was not how he was going to die, this was not how he was dying right now. This was how he _had_ died –

Almost two years ago to the day.

It was horrifying that you would almost rather go back to flashbacks of your less than pleasant experiences in Hell than relive something so simple and so…final. He could almost smell the salt coming off of the lake, the red wine they had been drinking during the picnic. The golden light surrounding the Doctor (ohh, how he remembered that light and all it meant), made his eyes ache and his mind slide sideways; but you wished it would keep doing that, not matter how much it hurt – because soon the green fire would come and end it all.

But it had already happened.

He didn't know how he knew that either (after all, a postmark doesn't mean diddly to a Time-Traveler), but he had always trusted his gut and his gut told him it had already happened. He was getting the instant replay two years late, that was all.

And likely he was getting that instant replay because of the envelope that contained a message he had pressed the Time-Lord for.

The Doctor himself would say 'timey-wimey, spacey-wacey' but all that really boiled down to was a big fat he didn't know (or have time to explain). But Dean had an idea of why he was seeing the Doctor's death – and only half of it was because of an envelope that was likely layered in vortex energy. The other half was a year (almost a lifetime ago) when the Doctor tried to convince a bad guy to back off by pretending to be a bad guy himself. It wasn't the first time the Doctor had brushed his mind – but it was one of the hardest hitting – and it seemed to have left something behind; and that envelope was responding to it.

"He was already dead then," Dean mumbled to the pile of dishes on the counter. "He was dead and neither of us knew."

He didn't want to open that envelope.

He didn't want to end that chapter of his life.

It was a crazy chapter, it was full of horror and pain and guilt and fear and anger – but it was a time when he had made an unlikely friend. A friend that hadn't let him down once. Well…so far, anyway. The only way the Doctor had truly let him down was by doing what he had to do and not surviving it.

Dean blinked back moisture as he carefully put away the dried dishes, angry at himself for being so close to tears (for the third time in two days) and angry at the Doctor for ever dropping into his life in the first place. He knew that wasn't fair. He knew it wasn't right. But sometimes, the head and the heart disagreed and it was just best to let them duke it out until one or the other had won.

He breathed through the ache in his chest, trying to find a way to pull himself together, get it over with so he would just know already – when his cell rang. He jerked up, instantly alert and more than mildly suspicious – _No one has this number except…_Bobby_ and _Sam – the suspicion curdling into alarm when it rang three times, then hung up. The silence that fell afterwards was almost highlighted by the blaring of the radio from the other room.

He took two deep breaths before pushing away from the sink, aware that any calls to his cell were likely to be trouble (already made or ready to start) and the sharp burst of adrenaline that accompanied the jangling of the phone hadn't helped with thinking. He made his (irritatingly slow) way to the table where he had dropped his phone, and glanced over the caller id, the taste of fear and worry like hot iron across the back of his tongue, his heart racing along like he had somewhere else to be.

A couple more deep breaths cleared his head and calmed the slamming behind his ribcage, panic receding as fast as it had descended; years of training at his father's side kicked in without too much thought on his part. He welcomed the cloak of detachment, letting the adrenaline do it's job at keeping him sharp, without letting it interfere with his reactions to the situation at hand (or soon to be at hand). He was doubly grateful when he saw the name that flashed on the screen, though he had to squash the grin that wanted to tag on the heels of his almost-heart-attack.

_Well…try to avoid thinking of the devil and up pops one of his minions._

Though Amelia Jessica Pond was hardly anyone's minion. He actually winced at the idea of someone being stupid enough to say such a thing to her face and hit the call out button, letting himself imagine all the lines it had to race through to reach her; then the phone on the other end was being picked up.

"'ullo Dean."

Well. She sounded like Amy – all Scottish and lovely (he'd had quite a few delicious daydreams involving her accent – not that he'd tell her that); but she sounded more…subdued. Like all the fire had been temporarily knocked out of her and that left him breathless with hurt all over again. He knew. He had known – the second he saw that envelope, he had known. He dreamed of it. He had even thought he had come to accept it.

Sometimes, being wrong really fucking bit it.

"It happened then." He cut straight to the chase, knowing it probably hurt her more than it did him – /_He's my friend. My _best_ friend…/ – _but he also knew she'd appreciate the candor more than any kindness. She had seen it. She had been right there and she had _seen_ –

"Yes, 'fraid so," Amy murmured, a small laugh that sounded anything other than merry ringing through the phone to punch him straight in the gut. "Two years ago now. Almost to the hour – well…_our_ time, anyway."

Dean nodded before he remembered she couldn't see he spoke, his voice steadier than he expected, but still gruffer than he would have liked.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. So'm I, yeah? I was hoping, but…" She trailed off and he could hear the click of her nails as she tapped them against the phone, her sorrow and nervousness narrowed down to the pattern she tattooed against the plastic. "He always wins. He always –"

"Just not this time," Dean finished, voice thick with renewed grief – and when did this shit ever end?

"But he saved us. He's always doing that, the numpty." She breathed and he could hear her trying to rally – for him, if for nothing else – and it warmed him even as it made him feel crushed by all the things that wouldn't be. "So…I'm assuming –"

"Well…Rory called a couple of months ago," Dean replied, noting her hum of disapproval – _oops – _before continuing, ticking off events making him feel steadier, more put together. "Then the Doctor landed on my doorstep a month later, kind of to give me heads up I expect –"

"Bloody idiot," she murmured.

"Everything went to hell on our end and two days ago –"

"He sent you an envelope," she interrupted, sounding more astounded than questioning. "TARDIS-blue, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, too weary to be surprised. "I'm assuming he sent one to all of his friends?"

Amy laughed at that, sounding a bit warmer, but he could still tell he was being called a chucklehead by the way she laughed. It shouldn't have, but it made him feel a bit better – a little more normal.

"Only certain ones," she corrected. "Most of us received an invitation with a time and place to meet…but I'm assuming yours…didn't? Well – it was two _years_ ago, so I'm hoping –"

"I don't know," Dean interjected, feeling foolish and heartsick all at once. He was grateful he hadn't gotten one like Amy had, as he could only guess what the time, date and place led to, but he still felt warm that the Doctor had included him in the list of friends to receive something he considered important.

"You…haven't –"

"Opened it, no," Dean supplied, feeling a little more foolish now that he'd admitted it out loud. "I haven't been able to bring myself to…I don't know. Make it real?"

Amy was quiet, her nails ceasing their tapping – and he wondered if she was going to hang up, just leave it at that and call it good. She had called to make sure he knew, she had done him that much of a kindness, her part was technically over; a thought that made him just that much sadder and more than a little desperate to keep her on the line. Once they disconnected, he had a feeling he'd never talk to her again. It wasn't a gut feeling, so it wasn't a sure thing – but it felt close enough to the truth to make him feel like he had lost more than the Doctor and all that he had meant.

"I can understand that," she murmured. "God knows if I could rewind –"

"I'm sorry," Dean said sadly.

_/He's my _best friend_./_

"Don't be," Amy soothed, giving Dean the crazy urge to giggle. She had witnessed it first hand – two years ago, yes, but she had been _right_ _there_ – and she was trying to make _him_ feel better. "I was where I was suppose to be. I was right there with my friend, where he wanted me to be. Where I needed to be. Even if I could change that…"

"You wouldn't," Dean replied, knowing full well what that was like and knowing how very true what she said was. If he could go back and change what happened to Castiel, he would – but if he was given the option to either be there or…not, he knew which option he would take.

"I wouldn't," she agreed.

Things were quiet for a moment – not awkward, just more of a sharing of memories and keeping of thoughts than anything else. Dean was grateful because it let him sort it all out and he was sure Amy felt the same.

"You don't…you don't have to tell me what it says, when you open it," she began hesitantly. "Christ knows that's for you alone, that is yours to keep or let go of. But – don't be a stranger, yeah? Rory and I…we've met a lot of good people. We don't want to lose that, you know? And he wouldn't want us to lose that either. He was all about that – making friends and…"

"Yeah," Dean agreed with a gruff laugh. "Yeah, he was. Same to you, Amy Pond-Williams. Goes both ways you know."

She laughed again, sounding a little lighter – though she didn't sound like the girl who had just gotten married and was taking a rather long honeymoon that he had met three years before. She sounded a little sadder, but also a little wiser and more grounded. Whether or not that was a good thing, time would tell. But Dean didn't think she regretted having met the Doctor – and as much as losing him hurt, he found he couldn't regret it, either.

"Have you ever wished though –"

"Not once," she cut in, voice firm and steady as she countered what he had been thinking. "Never. Good and bad – it has made me who I am. Kind of like who I am, even compared to who I thought I wanted to be. I couldn't make _him_ understand that. He was so convinced that he had made things…worse for us. And there was no talking him around it. But it was an adventure. I wouldn't trade it for anything else."

"Yeah," Dean croaked, horrified that he was tearing up again, but knowing Amy would be the last person to call him on it. "Yeah it was….listen – you take good care of that husband of yours. Troublemaker if there ever was one."

Amy laughed again, her voice also thick – but oddly happy – and he could feel something inside settle a little firmer than before; a relief and a loss all at once.

"I'll do tha' – look after your brother, cowboy."

Dean grinned. "Never seem to stop."

"I'll talk to you later, then?" She sounded hopeful, but ready to be disappointed – considering Dean had felt that way not but a minute before (and for the same reason), he put as much sincerity as he could muster in his reply, more than a little surprised that he intended to do as promised.

"Definitely, Amy."

"And oi, Stupid – try not to start another Apocalypse, yeah? Some of us are trying to get back to normal over here." Playfully, but with just enough worry to convey that she knew partly what was going on. And that he'd better check up with her regularly, just to keep her from coming to investigate. It amazed him and frightened him more than a little (and not just because having a grumpy ginger on your tail was scary), that he had actual _friends_ – real flesh and blood people that weren't hunters – all because he had met a man with a machine that could go anywhere and anywhen in all of time and space. It wouldn't seem like much to anyone else, but to him (not to mention Sam and Bobby) it meant everything.

"We'll try to keep the End Times down to a dull roar," he countered dryly, pleased when she laughed again, her goodbye bittersweet – but filled with the promise of hearing her voice again.

_Rory_ on the other hand…

He winced again, wondering what kind of hell that poor man was in for as he set the phone down – his heart warmer even as it still sat heavy within his chest; Amy's call a blessing and a curse all at the same time.

It was official.

It was real.

The Doctor was dead.

_Don't have to open it now, do I?_

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe again, not caring that the moisture in his eyes couldn't be attributed to the vast amounts of dust in the cabin or the allergies he didn't have. Even if Sam and Bobby stepped through that door right now, he was sure he wouldn't stop and for once, he shouldn't have to. He had lost more in just a few years than most men would in a lifetime – and there was always more to lose. He had lost a friend today. It may have happened years ago as far as the rest of the world was concerned, but it had been made official today. He was allowed to mourn. He had been through things that would leave most barking and drooling in a mental ward (and seen that firsthand, actually) – he was allowed this moment.

The radio crooned out the opening notes to the Chili Pepper's 'Soul to Squeeze' and he smiled despite himself, even though the song was one of their more melancholy tunes – _older song, dumbasses – _letting the notes soothe him as he wiped away tears for a man long dead only a few minutes ago.

Anthony Kiedis crooned mellow and thoughtful in the background as he retrieved the envelope, half relieve and half sad to find it still there. His fingers brushed over the stamps from Italy, Australia and England (to name a few) as he took his seat, the postmarked date (April 22nd, 2011), carrying it's own memories. The weight of those memories far heavier and more horrifying now that he knew what fell on the same date. Now that he knew _who_ had fallen on that same date. He let his mind drift to that dark time, his fingers drifting over the various stamps that adorned the front – even as the envelope itself looked pristine and freshly posted, not a crinkle or smudge-mark to mar its surface.

It had been a rough year, 2011. It started badly and ended worse – but on that particular day, he and Sam had just gotten done with a salt and burn, too afraid and heartsick for Bobby to try to do anything bigger, unsure whether or not the man would even answer their calls any more. But helping to kill a man's wife for the second time and burn her body didn't exactly lead to hand-holding and off tune renditions of 'Kumbaya'. Sam and Dean had truly thought they had lost him, that knowing them had finally caught up with the older hunter and he had declared himself done.

They wouldn't have blamed him at all. They never said as much to each other and heavens knew the brothers Winchester hadn't exactly seen eye to eye for awhile, even at that time – but they had made a silent vow that if Bobby was done with them, they'd leave him be. They'd make sure he was _safe_ – that a Winchester would never darken his door again, if that's what he had wished.

It was an uncertain time – filled with darkness.

And on April 22nd, 2011 at 8:22pm (5:22pm West Coast time)…the earth stood still.

Dean was sure then he hadn't imagined it. He and Sam had turned to one another and exchanged 'oh shit' looks, interlaced with 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you' all wrapped in one as the planet held it's breath – for just a moment.

Just one little space of time.

Green light had flashed across his vision – and a voice (**his** voice) just an echo –

_/"You are always and _completely_ forgiven."/_

And then the world breathed again and they were left blinking in its wake.

He never knew what Sam saw. What he heard or felt. Neither brother acknowledged or discussed it. But Sam had nothing to say about his drinking that night, as he was too busy joining him to protest.

And the next day, they woke up to shotguns in their faces – and their world got a whole lot shakier than it had ever been before. Their views on the afterlife, angels and each other went to hell in a hurry – and wasn't it just fitting that it all started with the death of one man; a man who had changed them when they had first met, without their even knowing just how much.

"You weren't even anywhere near us and you brought trouble," Dean chuckled, wiping at a stray tear as Anthony declared in the background, his voice wistful, but filled with hope – and wouldn't the Doctor just love that?

_When I've found my peace of mind…I'm gonna keep it til the end of Time –_

"Sing it, man," Dean grinned, not knowing what lay inside the envelope, but knowing the Doctor had lived up to his end of the deal before he died. The least Dean could do was see what he'd had to say.

The next song started (some tune made popular the year before) and Dean went to go turn it down, but at the last minute decided to let it be – wondering if the Doctor would appreciate the subtle irony of the lyrics. Which was really a stupid thought because of course he would, the crazy fucker. It wasn't normally a song Dean would listen to, but he secretly enjoyed it whenever it came on the radio (something he'd never let Sam know in a million years), so he let it roll, the singer's voice filling the cabin with cheer as he flipped the envelope over in his hands, fingers tracing the sealed flap as he wondered if he should just tear it open – or do it the proper way and unseal the flap.

Either way the Doctor would approve he was sure.

_I thought I gave it to you months ago. I know you're trying to forget – but between the drinks and subtle things, the holes in my apologies, I…I'm trying hard to take it back –_

The proper way it was then.

He pulled out his pocketknife, wondering for a mere flash of insanity if the Doctor had sealed this the 'normal, human' way – and if there would be any Time-Lord germs on his knife when he got done opening the fucking thing. He restrained the urge to giggle and then told himself to stop being stupid.

Of course he wouldn't.

Time-Lord DNA couldn't just be frittered about willy-nilly like that.

He found he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at that and knew that if anyone was watching, he would look like the lunatic he felt he was for that fraction of a second; crying crazily one minute and trying to hold laughter in the next.

It was a mixture of relief, sadness and genuine joy when he finally got the flap open. The Doctor had sent this. He had sent it for _him_ – he had bothered to care about one Dean Winchester; and though the door was closing, he was hoping it would lead to another one to open.

Nothing ever truly ends.

Nothing is ever truly lost or forgotten.

We're all just Stories in the end…

He had learned a lot through the alien with a man's face and the heart of two of the same. He could only hope he applied those lessons wisely. He was sure the Doctor had done just that with whatever he took away with him.

He was just like that.

_Now, I know that I'm not all that you've got…I just thought…that maybe we could new ways to fall apart. But our friends are back – so let's raise a toast. Cause I found someone to carry my ho-ome tonight –_

"Yeah," Dean breathed, face aching with the smile that held back more tears. "He'd love this song."

Two more deep breaths and he had pulled out the little square of (expensive, fancy – probably stolen) stiff parchment, envelope laid down reverently as he tried to pull himself out of the tug of war in his head long enough to read the Doctor's last missive.

He had expected a note – maybe not long, but a few sentences – and was surprised to find the date, time and place 'invitation' Amy had mentioned scrawled in cramped copperplate across the top only to be scribbled out hastily (with a different pen), like the writer had realized only at the last second that Dean wasn't going to make the party. He could feel a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked it over, half afraid to look at the single sentence below – the lack of rambling ominous and yet relieving all at once.

It still took yet another steadying breath to read it – and it was released on a sigh as he finally read what he had been dreading (and outright avoiding) for two whole days:

_I FOUND MY ANSWER._

"Ohh, Doctor," Dean murmured, the ache in his chest intensifying for a mere moment before easing again, his heart heavy even as he tried to smile. "Guess you got to the 'why', huh?"

He was just about ready to stuff the paper back into the envelope (and lock it away in his 'keepsake' box), when he noticed a little arrow hastily drawn in at the bottom, overlooked only because it was sitting right under his thumb. Curious (and more than a little amused), Dean flipped the card over, only to find it was blank.

"Huh…" Dean muttered, mildly dismayed. "Not keen on riddles, Doc."

But then, the Doctor already knew that. He liked a good joke as much as the next guy – but he wasn't the type to go to the trouble to draw in an arrow that lead nowhere. He liked jokes – not pranks. And certainly not pranks at the expense of a friend who was already having it rough.

Still…the card held no clues. Nor did the outside of the envelope – and when he shook the envelope over the table nothing else fell out, which left him mildly disappointed and just a little pissed that the Doctor chose to go scatterbrained just as he was sending Dean his farewell message.

"Oh well," Dean shrugged, finally, giving it up as a lost cause. "It's not like the man didn't have a lot on his mind, what with the dying and all."

He read the message a few more times, smile sitting more comfortably (if a little sadly) on his lips, the ache reminding him that it had been a long while since he had smiled at all. It didn't feel half bad, actually – and in the Doctor's memory, he vowed to try to find time to smile, maybe even laugh more often.

He even got a chance to keep that promise no more than a few seconds after he had made it.

He was still puzzled over the arrow going to nowhere, but deemed it a lost cause – a mystery to never be solved; when he finally saw where it pointed to. A genuine bark of surprised pleasure rolled out of his mouth before he could stop it and really, why would he want to?

Underneath the flap (something he would have missed if he had opened the letter the Winchester way) was a message, just as big and bold as the answer to Dean's question a month before and twice as cheeky. Dean could actually see the man smiling as he scrawled it in a white pencil on the blue (the bluest-blue) paper – the ultimate joke and the best reassurance he could ever give – in just one word:

_**GOTCHA**_.

If Sam and Bobby ever found the letter, they never said. But it sat safe in his lockbox after that, a sign of hope and friendship, even in the face of death. Dean only took it out when he really needed to; though the sight of it was usually a comfort on its own.

The cabin was still oppressively hot that night – and the two beers he consumed before bed really didn't help much with his thirst at all. But he had lived (and died) through worse.

All that mattered, in the end, was that he got real sleep, with no nightmares to chase him down into slumber or back out into shocking awareness. With this life he lived and the uncertainties that followed with it – sometimes that was all you could ask for. Sometimes that was close to all that you needed.

But sometimes…

The next day, he called his brother.

Then he called Bobby.

He even called Amy; to let them know that he was okay.

That he was _going_ to be okay (and so would they), no matter what. Because sometimes you needed more than a place to lay your head and a few hours in which to do so.

Sometimes, you needed the people you love. You needed your friends. Because there were times when you couldn't walk. Times when you couldn't even crawl. And when those times came, you just needed someone to carry you.

You just had to let them know that you loved them enough to let them try.

**~Finis~**

_So if by the time the bar closes and you feel like falling down…I'll carry you home…tonight._


End file.
